


As Though of Hemlock

by LynnLarsh, QuinnAnderson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Angst and Humor, Disturbing Themes, Drag, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Unhappy Ending, Violence, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinnAnderson/pseuds/QuinnAnderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and John have terrible timing, and Moriarty engages them in a battle of wits, cross dressing, skull-duggery, misplaced semi-automatic rifles, casual murders and even more casual sex. Johnlock, Mormor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> Okay, guys, this is a funny one, so please read this carefully to avoid confusion. This story is a bit of a challenge a friend of mine and I issued to one another. I love, LOVE writing as Moriarty, but since I primarily write Johnlock, I get very few opportunities to do so. Me and heretherebefandom (yes, the same girl I wrote to for the Johnlock gift exchange) are going to perform a bit of an experiment. I'm going to write entirely from the perspective of James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, and she's going to write Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We're going to post separate chapters here that interact with one another, alternating which of us is writing, and we're not going to discuss the plot at length ahead of time. We're just kind of going to write our characters and throw each other curve balls, and in the end we'll have an awesome fic that challenged us both.
> 
> Oh, and title is from the John Keats's poem 'Ode to a Nightingale'. Parts toward the end of it are very Moriarty, if you care to give it a read. It's also a reference to how Socrates was forced to commit suicide via hemlock **spoiler** just as Moriarty forces Sherlock to commit suicide in TRF.
> 
> Okay, sound good? Everyone on board? Lets begin.
> 
> This chapter was written by me, Quinn Anderson, and will be from Moriarty's POV.
> 
> Warnings: This fic is going to delve very deeply into the mind of Moriarty at points, so needless to say it's going to be really fucked up. It will feature explicit sexual material, swearing, violence, murder, the whole nine yards. If you have a problem with this, don't read this fic and also stay away from Rob Zombie films.

…

…

There were certain situations in which being a professional criminal really came in handy.

One was when you wanted someone dead but didn't necessarily want the thrill of murdering them yourself. The world is full of desperate idiots, and desperate idiots are incredibly susceptible to bribes, blackmail and general intimidation. James Moriarty never had trouble finding someone to do his bidding.

Another was when you felt like adding some new stolen-and-illegally-imported Monet to the décor in your flat, and you happened to know the perfect black market dealer to sell it to you at an incredibly reasonable price.

In this particular instance, however, Jim—consulting criminal extraordinaire—was taking advantage of one of the many skills he'd picked up in his time on the wrong side of the law.

Spying.

Glorified voyeurism.

He had discovered, through a small amount of trial and error, that with the right application of shimmery eye shadow (purple did wonders for the amber tones in his eyes) and the proper shade of pink lipstick, he could throw on a wig, a slinky Versache dress and some Manolo pumps and make quite the convincing woman. It was a skill he employed each and every time the opportunity presented itself out of sheer pleasure. His flair for the dramatic lent itself readily to the disguise, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel damn pretty in pink.

Beyond the simple joys of drag, it was an especially useful disguise because Sherlock Holmes—consulting detective—paid very little attention to women.

It wasn't that he disliked them—at least, not any more than he disliked the rest of the ordinary people—but rather that women as a demographic are considerably less likely to commit violent crimes; ergo, they captured Sherlock's attention much less frequently.

That was partially the reason why, after a shockingly minimal amount of effort, Jim found himself seated in a posh restaurant a mere three tables away from the detective, completely unnoticed by the man who noticed everything. The pet was there, too, the live-in one that Sherlock had apparently found some value in. The doctor and the soldier. They looked positively  _quaint,_  staring into each other's eyes and talking animatedly, then wondering why everyone mistook them for a couple. Oh, to be young and thoroughly oblivious. It would be charming if it weren't so  _stupid._

The two men appeared to be enjoying a late dinner together, or at least Watson had food in front of him. Sherlock must have been on a case, judging from the single glass of water he was sipping from. Jim knew from many long evenings of watching him that he never ate during cases. Terrible habit, really. Sherlock thought digestion slowed him down, but starving his brain of precious nutrients was going to be hard on him in later years.

If Jim allowed him to live that long.

Which, of course, he wouldn't.

Jim glanced across the table at his rather bland date. The man was clearly an idiot, but he served his purpose. A "woman" sitting alone in a restaurant would draw more attention than a woman who was seemingly out with a young gentleman. The poor thing had yet to notice the rather obvious Adam's apple bobbing beneath Jim's chin, though he fully planned to reveal it at the end of the evening just to cherish the look on the man's face when he realised the horrible truth. His date—American, late 30s and very happy to have met a nice Irish woman with a cute accent—seemed content to chatter on about his fantasy football league while Jim observed his prey.

The criminal had plans for tonight.

 _Oh_ , yes he did.

He'd been making his extensive network of puppets dance behind the scenes for many months now, and soon all his hard work would come to fruition. There were still a few kinks that he needed to work out, but those were mostly dependant upon how his obsession and his vacuous pet reacted to his machinations.

The more they pushed, the harder Jim would push back until they inevitably cracked under the force of his ill intentions. It was practically a law of nature.

Jim checked back into his date's conversation long enough to say something vapidly cute, and the man (Bruce was his name) laughed. Jim only barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Really, how did anyone make it through an entire dinner without losing the will to live? He was so bored he was considering setting the tablecloth on fire. At least then he could watch everyone scurry off like a herd of spooked cattle.

Thankfully, his salvation was nigh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock leave his table and stride away in the direction of the toilets. John would be alone for a solid five minutes.

Perfect.

Jim pushed thoughts of arson reluctantly from his mind and quickly formulated a plan of attack.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said to Bruce, pitching his voice higher into a very believable alto, "but this drink is just not working for me." He held up his glass and pouted, even going so far as to bat his eyelashes. "I asked for a vodka martini, and they definitely gave me gin."

Bruce had the decency to look sympathetic, as if this were some form of legitimate tragedy. His simpering smile, however, indicated more sinister ulterior motives: he obviously wanted Jim to drink more in the hopes that the alcohol would loosen him up and he might get to give him one tonight. When coupled with his slight hesitance—lingering moral quandaries—and flushing cheeks—arousal, embarrassment, anticipation—the evidence was glaring. The criminal fought down the giggles that were bubbling up in his throat. If his date had managed to get his dress off, he would have got quite the surprise.

"That's awful," Bruce stuttered. "Have them make you a new one. On me, of course."

Jim winked. "You're a doll. Thanks so much."

He moved to the bar, which was conveniently located right next to the table where John Watson sat. He ordered a new drink in his sickeningly sweet damsel-in-distress voice and then made a point of turning to the side and resting his hip against the counter, his body language open and inviting. Jim also made certain, however, to let quite a bit of his "hair" fall into his face to obscure its shape. Even if the pet was an idiot, he wasn't blind. Jim couldn't afford to be recognised until his plan was underway, and people tended to remember the faces of those who strapped Semtex to their chests.

It seemed he had little to fret about, however. He felt rather than saw John rake his eyes over him, and the doctor's gaze most certainly lingered. Oh, how Jim  _loved_  playing this game, and playing it well. Showmanship was one of the most enjoyable things about staying alive.

He caught John's gaze just as he was about to look away.

They shared eye contact for a full, luscious three seconds. Then Jim flushed pink and glanced away, affecting an air of modest arousal.

It took Dr John Watson exactly seventeen seconds to approach him.

"Hullo," he said, leaning easily against the bar. "I'm John."

"Hullo," Jim repeated, affecting an Estuary accent. It wouldn't do to give his Irish heritage away. "I'm Delilah." His choice of alias was a bit of a risk, but he doubted John would notice the reference. "All right?"

"I'm quite all right, now that I've seen you."

Jim visibly restrained himself from cringing at the line and smiled instead. "Oh, really? See anything you like?"

John looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on Jim's fake breasts (a lacy bra stuffed with rolled-up socks) and his freshly-shaven legs (his calves were to _die for_ , thank you very much). "Oh, yes. I see a very attractive woman who's currently out with a boring date."

Jim actually had to give him credit for his observation. He smiled and ran his fingers through his fake black curls in a flirtatious manner. "Are you a psychic, then? How could you possibly know that?"

"Well, you're standing at the bar, obviously in no rush to get back to your table, and there's a man over your left shoulder who is currently glaring daggers at me."

Jim gave a very cute, high-pitched giggle, and John flushed. God, men were so easy sometimes. "Do you read the minds of all the women you flirt with?"

"It's a bit of a habit I've developed of late."

"Well, it's certainly impressive." The bartender arrived just then with a vodka martini in a fresh glass. Jim picked up his drink and made like he was about to turn away. "Much as I would love to stay and have a proper chat, I'd hate to snub my nose at propriety. I can't flirt with another man while I'm on a date."

John grabbed his arm to stop him, and Jim only barely managed to suppress a triumphant grin. Gotcha.

"That's all well and good, but it won't stop  _me_  from flirting with  _you_."

"You're so  _naughty,_ " the criminal cooed, crinkling his nose cutely, "but, er… didn't I see you with a … well, with a man, before?"

John looked confused for a moment, but then his face snapped to attention. "Oh, no! That's just my flatmate. We're not a couple." He let out a breathy chuckle that Jim almost found attractive. "Everyone bloody well thinks we are, though."

"Oh? Why's that?" He took a delicate sip of his martini. He had the enemy open and unguarded, and he was not one to let an opportunity of this magnitude slip by. He settled into the role of curious stranger with dazzling ease.

"I dunno why, really. I suppose it's because we're always together. Living in the same flat tends to force you to develop similar habits and schedules. God only knows I seem to be the only person who can stand to be around him for more than ten minutes. He's . . . special." He paused thoughtfully and then looked chagrinned. "Sorry. Here I am going on about my flatmate when I should be flirting with the gorgeous woman in front of me."

Jim smiled. "It's quite all right. I like hearing people talk about their relationships. I took psychology in uni and always thought it was fascinating."

"Well, I wouldn't call it a  _relationship,_ per se _._ "

"Why not? It sounds like this flatmate of yours is a big part of your life. I'll bet this isn't the first time you've discussed him with a woman."

John scratched his head sheepishly. "You've got me there. He certainly does come up in conversation a lot. Quite a bit more than I'd like, actually."

"I'll wager your love interests don't respond too kindly to that."

"Oh, certainly not. I had one tell me I was making her compete with him."

Out of the corner of Jim's eye, he saw a dark figure moving quickly towards them. It was Sherlock, apparently returned from the loo, and from the black look on his face, he had most assuredly recognised him. No amount of eye shadow or designer dresses could fool those brilliant blue eyes once they took the time to focus.

"I can sympathise with her," Jim drawled. "Competing with Sherlock Holmes is something no ordinary person can do."

John cocked his head to the side and gave him a funny look. "I'm sorry, but I'm almost positive I never mentioned my flatmate's name. How did you—?"

"I'd better be off." Jim grabbed his clutch, downed the last of his martini and began to sashay towards the front entrance. "It's been so nice to have a proper chat, Dr John Watson."

He reached the door just as he heard Sherlock begin to shout. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the detective was attempting to pursue him. Several waiters were barring his progress, however, obviously thinking he was trying to skip out on his bill. Sherlock was hissing at John—Jim couldn't hear him, but he was quite certain he was calling the doctor every variant of "idiot" that he could think of—and John looked utterly baffled by his behaviour.

Jim grinned with manic delight and slipped out the front door and into the brisk night air. The sky was clear, for once, and the streets were bathed in a generous amount of lustrous moonlight. Little flakes of snow swirled in the breeze before alighting on the ground with their brethren. It was quite romantic, and it instantly put him in a scheming mood. Not that it was difficult to get him into that mood, oh no. He merely preferred to have the proper atmosphere whenever possible.

Now that Sherlock was aware of just how vacant his little doggie actually is—I mean,  _really_ , who flirts with the world's most dangerous criminal and never thinks twice about it?—it was time to set his plan into motion. This was what it was all for, after all. He remembered when Sherlock had asked him that question at the pool where Carl Powers died. Their first date, as he liked to think of it. The poor detective had been genuinely confused, unable to riddle out Jim's motivation.

He just couldn't seem to come to grips with what the criminal had known for years now.

Sherlock belonged to him. He had Jim's name scrawled across his forehead, burned irrevocably into his skin. Other people tried to own Sherlock—the DI who used him for cases, the little lab rat who thought she could seduce him with her blandness, the loyal doggie who begged piteously at his feet—but they were all wrong. The only person in the world who deserved him, who could possibly understand him, was Jim, and he was growing weary of letting others play with his toy.

One day, he would pack his beloved detective into a box and never let him out.

He hadn't decided yet if he was going to punch air holes in it or not.

"Soon, Sherlock," he sighed softly under his breath. "Very soon."

Jim had just ducked down one of his favourite short cuts—the alley behind an abandoned antique shop—when he heard a shout. He turned back without the slightest trace of fear. There was no way Sherlock had managed to wrest himself from the grip of the waiters yet, and the streets of London held no threat he couldn't handle. He was the most dangerous predator in this particular urban jungle.

Sure enough, it was his clueless date running after him, looking flushed. Jim had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Some men just couldn't take a hint.

"Hey," Bruce panted when he reached him, stopping about a foot away, "why'd you run out on me like that? I thought we were really hitting it off."

Jim studied the man with a face that would have looked sympathetic to any person expecting normal emotion from him. He should indulge the poor man, make up some emergency that he has to dash off to and promise to reschedule their date soon. It would take another five minutes of conversation, but it would soothe poor Bruce's wounded ego.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Jim whipped out the knife he kept in his coat pocket and slashed Bruce's throat in one quick movement. His flesh split open like warm butter beneath the sharp blade.

Jim ducked as the man's jugular released a spray of blood but still managed to get a few drops on his dress.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed as Bruce fell to his knees, gurgling and clutching at his mangled throat. Jim glared at him and the crimson that was dying the snow beneath them pink. "This is dry clean only, you miserable cunt."

Bruce did not apologise. He fell heavily forward on his face and laid very still.

Jim rolled his eyes and stepped daintily over the corpse, careful not to let his heels sink into the bloodied snow. "Really, some people are so inconsiderate."

Without so much as a backwards glance, he strode off into the shadows of a perfect London evening.

…

…

Jim was not surprised in the slightest when he returned to his flat and found Sebastian Moran on his sofa. His most trusted employee spent such a large amount of time there he was practically a second tenant. Jim was surprised, however, to find the man perched over the back of the sofa with a large assault rifle trained at the door. There was a red laser point on Jim's chest, indicating he was standing directly in the line of fire.

The consulting criminal paused for only a moment before reaching down to nonchalantly pluck off the black pumps he was wearing and dump them on the threshold. "My God, my feet are  _killing_  me. I don't know how women wear these every day."

Sebastian lowered the rifle fractionally and considered him with a thoughtful expression. "I think they make gel inserts and things that you can use to ease the pressure."

"That's not a bad thought." Jim pulled his wig off and removed the pearl clip-on earrings he favoured. "Perhaps I'll pop into a store when I'm in the city tomorrow and see what I can find." He turned towards his right-hand man and studied him: attractive, close-cropped blond hair, weathered face, hands that were flecked with little white scars and steady blue eyes. He had the gaze of a man who could stare into the endless bowels of Hell unflinchingly. "You know the question I want to ask, Sebby." Jim nodded to the rifle in his hands. "Don't make me actually say it."

"Remember our last client?"

"The Norwegian man with the foot fetish?"

"Yes. He's dead now."

"Did his cheque clear?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." Jim moved into the living room and began unzipping his dress. "Get me some clothes."

The other man followed his instructions immediately. He set the rifle down carefully on the sofa before ducking into the bedroom on the other side of the room and returning a moment later with a grey V-neck shirt and some soft shorts. Jim took them from him, now unabashedly naked, and pulled them over his lean body.

Seb continued speaking, unfazed by the sight of his boss sans clothing, "He had a sudden change of heart and made some threats along the lines of turning us all into Scotland Yard."

"Ah, so you followed standard procedure and killed him and his immediate family?"

"Yes, but I was concerned his business-partner-and-secret-gay-lover might seek revenge. I've sent someone to dispatch him, but the rifle at the door was an added precaution until his death is confirmed."

"I see. Well, cheers to another job well done." Jim fell elegantly onto the sofa, careful not to land on the rifle, and let his limbs sprawl out. Sebastian retook his weapon and resumed his former position, pointing it steadily at the door.

"How was your date, sir?"

"'Was' is deliciously appropriate. He  _was_  boring, but I accomplished what I set out to do."

"The doctor fell for your disguise, then?"

"Like a horny uni student who's had one too many pints after a rugby game."

"Excellent use of simile, sir. So, you'll be proceeding to the next part of your plan?"

Jim flopped over onto his stomach, propped his head up on his fists and kicked his legs back and forth cutely. "Oh, Sebby, you know how I am. I'm a proverbial study in impatience." He winked and wiggled his hips suggestively. "I can never resist a good intrigue. Do you see the package on the table?"

He watched as Sebastian glanced at their work top, noting the package wrapped in neon-coloured paper with an enormous pink bow on top. "Yes."

"I'll need you to post that for me tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

"To what address?"

Jim grinned wickedly, and for a moment his face twisted into the visage of the eerie devil he truly was. "221B Baker Street."

…

…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to dinner, Sherlock hogs the loo and hijnks ensue.
> 
> Written by heretherebefandom.

...

...

"Mushrooms? That's what this whole "crime syndicate, smuggling operations" thing is about?" To say John was taken aback would have been a drastic understatement. "All this sneaking around in back alleys and sending me out to spy on black market exchanges in the middle of night… For some bloody mushrooms?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if to say that John was being particularly juvenile. "Not just mushrooms, John. Truffles. French truffles to be exact. An endangered species of mushroom, if my research was correct."

"Right. Of course." John threw his hands up. "I've been missing out on sleep over endangered, French truffles. That's much less aggravating. In a competition between truffles and my  _health_ , the truffles would certainly have come out on top anyway. My apologies for being so inconsiderate."

"Apology accepted."

"You do realize I was being sarcastic." John frowned, shoving his hands deep in his pockets to keep from punching Sherlock across the face with one of them. Sherlock actually smirked at that.

"Animatedly so." The man took a breath, releasing a puff of white into the cold London air on a long sigh. "Would it help if I told you that not all of the shipments were recovered?"

John raised an eyebrow at him. "And that's supposed to make me feel better how?"

"Because I have it on good faith that there's a restaurant nearby that utilizes them in a few of their dishes," He flashed John a look that bordered on mischievous. "Hungry?"

John rolled his eyes at him, still trying to cling to his frustrations, though another thing this case had put a bit of a hold on the last few days was full meals. "I don't even know if I like truffles." He offered lamely, though he was already following willingly behind as Sherlock led the way to the mystery restaurant.

"Six people have been murdered over them in the last week." Sherlock shrugged. "I can only assume they're to die for."

John practically tripped over himself in shock. "Was that… a pun?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, a look of indifference on his face. "Was it?" He hummed, not bothering to answer further before hailing a cab.

As it turned out, though John had long ago stopped allowing himself to be surprised by it, Sherlock was right about the truffles. With no idea what to expect, John ordered some sort of macaroni and cheese with black truffles and bacon, and barely said a word to Sherlock after he'd gotten past the first bite.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Sherlock finally chuckled once the plate was half empty. John swallowed down his rather enthusiastic bite and smirked.

"Oh, it's to die for." He replied sardonically, shoving another forkful into his mouth and continuing to talk around it. "Aren't you going to order something? You solved the case, yeah?"

Sherlock raised his glass of water to his lips, barely taking a sip, eyes far away, analyzing something John couldn't see, let alone begin to comprehend. "There's something still bothering me about the shipping details." John made a noncommittal noise for Sherlock to continue. "The truffles were shipped here under an unregistered company."

"You said the exchange was illegal. I doubt they would put their actual name on the docket."

"That's just it. For an exchange like this, they wouldn't have put  _any_  name." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, locked on something intangible and far away. "It was almost as if somebody wanted that name to be seen. As if somebody wanted to make sure that detail explicitly made it into the case, left out in the open for me to find."

"You personally?" John said through his final bite of pasta, pushing the plate aside and signaling for the waitress to bring him another pint. Sherlock looked over at him as if he'd been wrenched from a dream.

"Excuse me?"

"You said 'left it out in the open for  _you_  to find.' As in you personally." John reiterated. "You think someone left that name there specifically for you?"

Sherlock looked at John for a long enough moment that it was almost uncomfortable, but before John could do little more than clear his throat, Sherlock put his glass down on the bar and got up, heading to the restroom without a word. John shook his head, exasperated. It was like talking to a wall.

"Here you go, hun," the waitress smiled, putting the fresh pint on a coaster in front of him.

"Ta," John picked it up and held it out a bit to her before turning around some in his seat and taking a sip. He scanned the small restaurant out of habit, picking up on a few things here and there thanks to so many years working with Sherlock. No major deductions by any means, but it was more than he could have done five years ago. Eventually, his eyes settled on the woman he'd noticed when they first arrived: long black curls, pink dress, slim, great calves, and walking up to the bar. Which put her right in his line of fire. He'd noticed her date, of course, and had every intention of admiring her from afar, but when they locked eyes, he couldn't help himself. Especially the way she blushed, looking away cutely. Slowly, John got to his feet, leaning against the bar as casually as he could.

"Hullo. I'm John."

"Hullo," She smiled, voice a soft, expressive alto. "I'm Delilah. All right?"

"I'm quite all right, now that I've seen you." He smirked, taking a sip of his beer.

Her smile grew a bit teasing. "Oh, really? See anything you like?"

John gave her the once over, trying not to linger too long, though finding the hint of bra showing at the edges of her neckline to be a bit distracting. He forced his eyes back to her face, wishing he could brush those curls behind her ear to get a better look. "Oh, yes." He said at last. "I see a very attractive woman who's currently out with a boring date."

...

It took one person trying to enter the bathroom before Sherlock decided to lock the door. He needed silence, no interruptions, just for a moment, to process why John's words had triggered something.

Of course, as to be expected of public, restaurant toilets, there was the jiggling of the handle and a knock before Sherlock even had a chance to press his hands together in thought. "Occupied," Sherlock called out, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers lightly to his lips.

 _"You said 'left it out in the open for you to find.' As in you personally."_  John had said _. "You think someone left that name there specifically for you?"_

Another knock, Sherlock rolling his eyes and offering an audible groan of annoyance. "I said occupied!" He shouted.

"There're three other stalls in there, mate." The man behind the door whined, an obviously drunken slur to his already thick eastern accent. "You can't hog the lot of 'em when there're paying customers out here lookin' to take a piss."

Sherlock threw open the door abruptly enough for the man to stumble, and just long enough to say, "The women's restroom looks vacant," before closing it in his face, locking it once more.

Sherlock leaned his back directly against the door this time, focusing back on the task at hand. Again, John had said _. "You think someone left that name there specifically for you?"_ That was important. But why was it important. Clearly his subconscious had decided the name on the roster had been left there for him. But what for? And what could that name possibly mean even if it did?

This time, there was no time wasted on knocking, the door shaking underneath the weight of the man on the other end throwing his shoulder hard into the wood. Sherlock took a step back, watching as the door shook under the man's second apparent attempt at breaking the door down. Surely this could not be simply ignored.

Making as little sound as possible, Sherlock unlocked the door, turned the handle just enough for the lock to slide out of place, and took a step back. Just in time for the man to ram his shoulder through the door and onto the restroom floor. Already resigned to the fact that no further data could be achieved by silence and solitary thought alone-as little as he'd received-Sherlock walked over the man and back into the restaurant with an indifferent, "It's all yours."

He made it three steps before he saw them. And ten precious seconds before he registered what he was seeing.

Despite the dress-a vibrant and tacky shade of pink that screamed and overzealous attempt at femininity-and the hair-a shade of black that would only be found in a wig with curls that hung more like silicone fiber than actual hair-Sherlock had no problem identifying the man. What he couldn't understand was why John didn't seem to notice. In fact, it took a few extra seconds before he realized that John wasn't suspicious at all, no connection being made to the blatantly obvious disguise, no hint of recognition, nothing.

Briefly, Sherlock thought that John was playing Moriarty, pretending to fall for his ploy in order to get information, a possibility that send a flash of panic through him. There was no way Moriarty wouldn't know. Unless it was pulling rank or feigning a medical emergency, John was a horrible actor. But then, watching John grab hold of his arm, keeping him close, that smile on his face he reserved for the girls that were interested but not attainable, Sherlock knew for certain. John had been fooled in the most obvious and pathetic of ways. And it had left him wide open for whatever Moriarty wanted to do to him.

A list of possible attacks ran through his head in under a second, all of which ending with John either dead, incapacitated, or traumatized. So when Moriarty finally noticed his attention, their eyes locking sharply, Sherlock's feet began moving virtually of their own accord. But it wasn't quick enough. He could see the look in Moriarty's eyes, could feel the intention, and he was do far away to stop it from happening.

"You!" Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the restaurant, every pair of eyes turning towards him as he attempted to push past people and tables and wait staff to get to the exit. If he couldn't get there in time, the least he could do is cause a distraction, get John's attention. "Stop!"

But Moriarty didn't do anything Sherlock expected, opting for grabbing her clutch and hastily making her way to the door. So Sherlock followed. Or, at least, he would have had two waiters grabbed at him from behind, holding him in place muttering something about skipping out on his tab. And within moments, Moriarty was gone. Which left John staring at him in poorly concealed humiliation and outright confusion, still not a clue on his face of what he'd just missed.

It took a substantial amount of apologizing from John and a hideously large tip before they'd finally been allowed to leave. But once they were outside, Sherlock turned on John with what he hoped was every ounce of anger he could muster. "You imbecile! What were you thinking?" How he hadn't noticed, how he hadn't even  _seen_  let alone  _observed_  this time… He knew John wasn't as intelligent or perceptive as he was, but this? This bordered on the Cro-Magnon. Is that all it took to fool the man? A little make up and some fake breasts? How could he have been so… So… "Idiotic! Irresponsible! Careless!" The words left him in a rush, arms gesticulating wildly at John in front of him, the man staring up at him in shock. "I had always hoped you would shock me one day with a bout of uncharacteristic intellectualism, but I never expected it would be your blatant, unobservant stupidity to catch me by surprise!"

"Excuse me?" John scoffed, baffled. "You're the one who went bloody nuts just now? What in the hell have I done, exactly?"

"Even now?" Sherlock was stunned, fury lessening to aggravation under the weight of John's defensiveness. Did he really not understand? "Do you honestly not comprehend how close you just were to being killed?" He put his hands on John's shoulders and lowered his gaze level, the man tensing under his touch. "Are you seriously so dense that you can't, even now, recognize how easy it would have been for him to-"

"Him? Him who, Sherlock? I don't-"

"Moriarty!"

Even in the dim lighting outside the restaurant, Sherlock could see John visibly pale. Then, as if reaching for the protection of his military days, he straightened, eyes stern and focused though his skin no less washed of color. "What does he have to do with anything?"

Sherlock sighed, removing his hands from John's shoulders and shaking his head. "Honestly, John. I'm disappointed in you." John's frown deepened, but he didn't protest, waiting for Sherlock to explain. As always. So he did. "This might come as a bit of a shock," he sniffed, the words cold and biting. "But that woman you were talking to?"

"Delilah," John filled in the unnecessary detail. "Does she work for him or something?"

"That  _was_  Moriarty!" Sherlock all but yelled, John stilling, eyes glazing over for a moment as if wracking his brain for every detail from their conversation. Apparently it wasn't enough.

"No… That was… I mean," John looked almost panicked. "That was a woman! She was… I saw her, Sherlock! I mean…" Sherlock could practically see some of the details getting clearer as John reeled, his knees practically giving way once it became otherwise undeniable. "Oh god," John groaned, reaching out to grab a chunk of Sherlock's jacket to keep himself upright. "I just…  _flirted_ … with Moriarty. How could I not have  _noticed_ , I…" He put a hand over his mouth, no doubt images of being rigged with a bomb racing through his head. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Sherlock was wrapping an arm around the good doctor's shoulders before he even realized it, hoisting him up and walking them both towards the main street. "Best not to waste those truffles if you can help it," Sherlock offered in attempt to lessen the tension. Thankfully John chuckled hoarsely, running a hand over his face.

"Endangered. Right," He sighed, smirk weary and forced. "I know how they feel." They walked for a moment, Sherlock trying to figure out Moriarty's motive while simultaneously attempting not to, stumbling under the weight of John leaning against him.

"It's pretty disturbing, actually," John mumbled, though it seemed more to himself than to anyone, so Sherlock listened in silence. "How good of a woman he makes. I had…" John shook his head. "I honestly had no idea. Why do that in the first place? Just to humiliate me? She…  _He_  asked me a few questions, but nothing he doesn't already know. I just don't get it." A few more moments of silence passed before John stopped, though he didn't remove himself from Sherlock's half embrace. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry." He kept his eyes straight ahead, though whether it was because he couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock or because he was too frazzled from the events of the night, Sherlock wasn't sure. "It won't happen again."

"I don't doubt that it won't." Sherlock offered. "This whole ordeal must have been scarring for you." John looked up at him, blinking, a sort of confusion in his eyes that Sherlock hadn't expected. He'd meant it as a joke. Was it too much?

All of a sudden, John's eyes shifted over Sherlock's shoulder, narrowing as if to better get a look at something in the distance. And widening once they managed to get a clearer view. "Sherlock." John whispered, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's collar and turning him around. No more than twenty feet away from them was the obvious contorted form of a body. Sherlock took a step forward as if drawn, separating himself from John to get a better look.

Odor reminiscent of no more than an hour of decomposition, means of death consistent with blood-loss judging by the splatter ratio in the surrounding snow. Slit throat, if the angle of the head in relation to the neck was any indication. Sherlock leaned a little closer, registering vaguely that John had walked up behind him, studying the dead body from a distance.

"Was it-?" John started at about the same second that Sherlock noticed the tracks. Even with the attempt at femininity, the gait was still identifiably masculine, the tread a set of Manolo high-heeled pumps.

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty's doing."

John cursed under his breath, already reaching for his cell phone. "I'll call Lestrade."

Sherlock heard it but chose not to process it, eyes already locked on a slip of paper protruding from the man's pocket just enough for it to be intentional. Predetermined. Sherlock made sure to slip a glove over his hand before reaching it for it, folding back the edges to reveal a creased and time worn photograph. Sherlock jolted to his feet quick enough for John to startle, whatever sentence he'd been on in his conversation with Lestrade shortened abruptly with a sharp, "Jesus, Sherlock!"

But the gears of Sherlock's mind were already whirling, the miles and miles of backlogged memory coming forward one by one searching for why this picture was important, how it was familiar, where it had been taken. It lasted no more than a fraction of a second before he located it, that tree outside of University where he'd taken solace when the library was otherwise occupied. The one with the bench that had been donated by the family of a man whose name was written in memoriam on a plaque cemented to the ground beneath its feet. A rather unique name that had stuck in the back of his mind when most other names from Uni had been deleted. And a name that resonated even more prominently now.

"Herandale." Sherlock blurted out, already rushing the rest of the way to the main street and waving down a cab. John was at his side in an instant, muttering something to excuse himself to Lestrade before shoving his phone in his pocket and following Sherlock into the taxi.

"Who?" John asked. As expected.

"Herandale." Sherlock held the photo out for John to see, ignoring as always the nagging sensation that Lestrade would certainly berate him for removing evidence from the scene of a crime. Again. "That tree was dedicated to a man named Alfred Herandale."

"How could you possibly know-?" John tried, but Sherlock was on a string of thought that would not be broken.

"I knew I recognized the name in the shipping logs, the unregistered company responsible for exchanges the crates of French truffles with the London crime syndicate. Hernadale Enterprises. A non-existent company, and therefore named with the intention of being recognized, a clue left out in the open to connect this man, the smuggling case, and one other thing."

John was following but not fast enough. As usual. "What?"

"Not what, John. Who." Sherlock prompted, but John seemed to be in no mood, running a hand over his face.

"Alright then. Who?"

Sherlock smirked. "Me."

The look of confusion lasted only a moment, impressive for John considering how discombobulating the night had become. John frowned, looking out the window as if that might make the realization seem less all consuming. "Moriarty." It wasn't a question. But then again, recently, it didn't need to be.

Sherlock nodded, turning the photo over and over again between his fingers. "Moriarty."

It didn't take long to realize that the photograph on the body-a man identified as Bruce Warren, though John recognized him initially as Delilah's/Moriarty's date-would be the first of many "presents" left behind for Sherlock and John to find. And with those presents, the tell-tale signs of Moriarty's twisted idea of a game, the items always related in some way to themselves, his signature always left behind in the form of a body or two. It was as though he was waiting for them to catch on, to beat him to the next one, luring Sherlock into another trap with a trail of dead bodies and a finish line made of the devastation left behind.

The first one, aside from the photo, was waiting for them when they got out of the cab, pinned to the door of their flat. "Is that…?" John got to it first, ripping the object from the door with no little amount of force, colorful fabric tearing down the middle but leaving it no less recognizable. A kite. And not just any kite.

"Do you need a moment?" Sherlock's voice was at his ear, John whipping around to face his flatmate only to realize he'd been staring at the kite long enough for Sherlock to pay the cabbie and walk up the stairs to settle behind him unnoticed. His eyes were as observant as always, and something else behind that familiar, calculating stare that took John far too long to interpret. Something very similar to concern.

Which meant he'd already figured it out.

Once they were in the flat, Sherlock wasted no time. "The kite is nowhere in my personal recollection. Which means it must be in yours."

"This isn't just about you. Moriarty's targeting me too." John translated, more for himself than for anyone else, as if hearing it out loud, in his own voice, would make it seem less terrifying, less suffocating. It didn't. "But why?"

"Why does James Moriarty do anything?" Sherlock picked up the kite and passed it from hand to hand, flipping it over like it might reveal something if the perspective changed. For Sherlock it very well could have. "He's bored."

"But why do we always have to be on the opposite end?" John groaned, grabbing the kite out of Sherlock's hands and chucking it across the room. "Why can't he just play Cluedo like a normal person?" Sherlock opened his mouth to offer an opinion, most likely about John not letting  _him_  play Cluedo, but John held up a hand and shook his head, letting himself collapse onto the couch in a huff. "I was being rhetorical."

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, raking over every inch of him as he hung his head in his hands, could practically feel his voice when he whispered, "I see. So this has something to do with your sister."

And John should have been expecting it, should find nothing surprising anymore about the conclusions Sherlock was able to gather, but it still caused him to look up in surprise. "And how… could you possibly have-"

"The kite is obviously meant to be nostalgic to you, and assuming you haven't taken up kite flying in the last few years, it is also meant to be representative of something in your childhood." Sherlock explained. "Your reactions tend to be more defensive and less controlled when they in some way involve your family. And since the only remaining relative you keep any contact with, albeit very little, is your sister, I can only assume the kite has meaning not just to you but to her as well." Sherlock took a seat in the chair to his left. "Perhaps you both used to fly kites together. Perhaps she was the one who taught you how. Most likely with a kite almost if not completely identical," he directed his gaze to the crumpled form of colored fabric and string staring at them both from the corner. "To that one."

John let out a breath, shaking his head in a disbelief he was amazed he could still have. "Right on all counts." He ran a hand over his face. "But that still doesn't explain why. I mean, there must be some connection, right? The kite on our door, the photo in that man's-"

The sound of Sherlock's phone cut him off, Sherlock reaching into his pocket and answering in the same fluid motion, the distant, muffled sound of someone talking filling the silence for a moment before Sherlock abruptly hung up, eyes wide and calculating and staring right at John, the case practically visibly being solved. "Where did you fly kites?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where did you fly kites with your sister? Or, where did she teach you how?" Sherlock was right in front of him now, arms barred on either side of John's head, clutching the back of the couch, locking him in. "What place do you associate with that kite?"

"Um," John looked away from those eyes, so bright and bold and too intense to think straight when pointed at you. "Hampstead Heath." If it was possible for Sherlock's eyes to light up with any more intensity, they did in that moment, Sherlock pushing himself away from the couch with a sort of bubbling, enthusiastic flourish.

"Grab your coat." He grinned, clapping his hands. "We're going to Hampstead Heath."

John did as told, following Sherlock out the door. "What? Why?"

"Lestrade has a body waiting there for us. Another present from Moriarty, I imagine." Sherlock threw a hand in the air, hailing a cab far easier than should be possible for anyone. "Please do try to keep up, John. This is about to get interesting."

After that, it was simple. Though the waiting seemed to drive Sherlock mad.

Every couple of days, though in no discernible pattern, another item would show up in a place where Sherlock or John were certain to happen upon it, the item in question having some connection to a place from their individual past, or more recently, a place they frequented alone or together since becoming flatmates. And with each item followed a body, placed as conspicuously as dead bodies were want to be. It was like being two seconds out of sync on a time line, one step behind and just enough to miss the moment between the life and death of some poor innocent soul caught up in the webs Moriarty effortlessly and mercilessly weaved. Each time, there was no evidence for Lestrade and no case for Sherlock, each scene wiped clean of any crime other than the result.

Moriarty was toying with them.

It was shortly after just barely missing the murder at Angelo's-the item left behind at Bart's, a blatantly placed coaster hanging from the toe of one of Molly's post mortems like an ID tag-that the final present arrived. Neither man could really describe how they knew. Perhaps it was the fact that there'd been no call from Lestrade. Perhaps it was the item itself. Either way, they both knew, on some level, that Moriarty had grown tired of showing off. That there was a new game coming.

John walked out into the middle of the street, barely even watching for cars, and picked up the mug, holding the handle between thumb and forefinger like it had been contaminated. His favorite mug, at that, cheeky bastard. He remembered drinking out of it that morning, washing it up, putting it away in the cupboard to the right of the sink like he did every bloody morning. And now it was here, taunting him like Moriarty's messenger from a busy intersection.

John looked from the mug back up to the window of 221B Bakerstreet at the all-knowing gaze of his flatmate, not even bothering to pretend he wasn't watching. Not this time. And John was no Sherlock Holmes by any means, but he understood what the mug meant.

Yeah. There was a new game coming. And if Moriarty had his way, there would be a body left in 221B by the end of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Quinn Anderson, from the perspective of Jim Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter is completely inspired by the fact that I'M IN DUBLIN, IRELAND RIGHT NOW. That's right, I'm in the birthplace of Andrew Scott! Not only that, but he went to my school! (though he did drop out, ha ha). I'm attending the University of Dublin (AKA Trinity College Dublin) and getting a Master's degree, so I'll be here for a whole year! It's beautiful and wonderful, and God I'm having so much fun. And all the boys have sexy accents! I'ma land me one of 'em if I can swing it. ;)
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the chapter.
> 
> Warning: This chapter is pretty squickable, I'm not going to lie. There's graphic descriptions of blood and viscera, and some disturbing sexual situations. You have been warned.

...

...

Jim Moriarty was seven years old when he committed his first murder.

It wasn't a murder in the traditional sense. There was no corpse, no fit of passion and no punitive crime committed, but even at that tender age he knew it for what it was.

He was attending a posh little public school his parents had insisted on, and the teachers had just escorted all the students outside so they could enjoy a bit of fresh air and a surprisingly sunny day. Dublin could be absolutely breathtaking this time of year with its rolling emerald hills and perfect blue skies, though it never got truly warm. The air was always crisp with the threat of impending winter.

The other children were running and squealing and generally being exceedingly dull. Jim was considered "special" by his teachers. Exceptionally bright, unnervingly perceptive and charismatic enough to convince them his piercing stare was nothing to be concerned about. He did not play well with the other children, but the adults were so sold on his bright, toothy grin and quiet demeanor they hardly gave him a second thought. He was  _reserved_ , not sociopathic, and  _creative_ , not manic.

Jim was good at that. Blending in. Seeming innocuous.

He made a point of it. They already saw so little, yet he could hide so much more from them.

It was simple, really.

That was partially the reason why when he wandered off into the sparse woods surrounding the playground, the "adults" barely noticed. They called him introspective. Contemplative. A boy who preferred the company of his own thoughts and would undoubtedly grow up to be a great scholar.

Jim knew otherwise, of course, but correcting them wouldn't serve his purpose.

And he had nothing if not exalted purpose.

He sauntered into a copse of trees, noting the faint tracks animals had left behind as they scurried over the moist ground and the way the moss was nauseatingly green in the sunlight. There were scattered beer bottles from when teenagers had hopped over the fence in search of a private location to host their debauchery, away from the watchful eyes of their parents. Jim was just settling at the base of a tree, prepared to sit back and let his mind wander for half an hour, when he heard it.

Rustling.

Feeble rustling that stuttered and paused like an uncertain heart beat.

He turned his head and peered at the underbrush, bright eyes searching. Something small and brown burst into the air, scattering dead leaves into a flurry before abruptly dropping to the ground. Jim climbed to his feet and crept closer. It was a small bird—a mockingbird, he noted distantly—lying amongst the twisted roots of a tree. One of its wings was wrenched unnaturally behind it with little bits of white bone peeking out between the soft feathers. Its expressionless face regarded Jim seemingly calmly, but its tiny chest was heaving with panic.

"Hullo," he cooed in a soothing tone. He reached out to gently pick up the bird, but it shot up, beating its one good wing frantically. It fell to the ground moments later, unable to sustain its weight in the air with just one wing. Jim quickly scooped it up, feeling its small heart pounding against his skin.

He held it for a long moment, noting the colour patterns on its wings, the dabs of brown, black and white in geometric shapes. It was random perfection, a preordained design that had developed from millennia of evolution yet was different every time.

Jim looked at it with love in his eyes. "You're beautiful."

Gradually, the bird began to relax, realising that Jim wasn't hurting it. Its heart stopped pounding, and it stopped wriggling in a futile attempt to escape.

Once the bird was perfectly calm—had resigned itself to his gentle, protective touch—Jim began to squeeze.

He started slowly, pressing in until he could once again locate the bird's pulse. He felt its heartbeat begin to race anew as his fingers tightened. He felt it panic, heard it cry out in piercing shrieks of pain. The bird struggled pathetically in his grip, desperate for the freedom it would never have again. He heard the bones as they cracked, sharp sounds that popped so softly, almost politely. The small amount of blood within the bird trickled over his hands, followed by tiny organs and intestines that made the most obscene, wet sound as they squished between his fingers.

Jim watched as the life left its tiny black eyes, felt its existence dripping from its body and crackling along his skin in the form of dancing sparks.

He shuddered, from the top of his head to his curling toes, and the deepest, darkest pleasure washed over him like waves of hot blood.

He understood, quite singularly in that moment, that he could never get enough of this feeling.

He smiled at the dead thing in his hands before bringing it carefully to his lips and planting the softest of kisses on its soaked, motionless breast.

He licked the blood from his lips and tossed the corpse carelessly aside. His fingers were covered in chunks of viscera. He carefully sucked each and every one of them clean, removing the evidence of his enlightening transgression.

At seven years of age, one thing was glaringly clear to him.

He needed more.

…

…

Carl Powers deserved to die.

He was a sniveling little gobshite, talking sweet to Jim when the teachers were around but mocking him in front of his mates. Jim had not carefully orchestrated the murders of his parents and his subsequent move to London to be teased by some pillow-biting rancid  _cunt._

Jim was small for his age, dark and keen in a way that made the other children nervous. The adults too, for that matter. They'd finally caught on just a teensy-weensy bit. His peers mostly stayed away from him, fearing the things his sharp tongue pointed out, the things he shouldn't know but somehow did. Except for the  _really_  stupid ones, like Carl. The ones who thought they were invincible because they were bigger than him. The ones who thought they couldn't die.

But Carl could. Jim had proved it.

It was easy, in the end. A little poison here, a little scratchy skin there, and the poor swimmer boy got a lungful of dirty water and chlorine. The whole ordeal was almost tragically dull. The police never questioned a thing, though Jim was secretly praying they would. Anything to end the tedium that was his ordinary life.

Carl's death was labeled a tragic accident and forgotten almost as quickly as it occurred. All of Jim's brilliant handiwork went unnoticed.

But not by everyone.

One boy, around his age, opened his eyes and  _saw._

He saw the trophy he'd kept, the shoes Carl lavished with affection, the same shoes that had kicked Jim in the ribs more times than he could count. He saw the impracticalities, and he saw the lies. He knew it wasn't an accident, and no matter how loudly he cried, no one was willing to listen to him.

Jim was instantly, intoxicatingly in love with him.

His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was "special", just like Jim was. He saw things he shouldn't be able to see, and the other boys and girls couldn't understand him.

But Jim could.

Jim  _did._

He decided, at fifteen years of age, that he would have Sherlock Holmes. Mind, body, flesh and soul. He would have every sinew and every synapse, every hot, salty tear and every rusty drop of blood. He would cut him open and squeeze until soft fat spewed out from his flesh. He would count his ribs and know the wild pounding of his heart just before it stuttered to a halt.

Sherlock Holmes would be  _his._ Completely.

It was easy enough to find him. He was in the library every day after classes, a creature of habit regardless of being such an unusual one. His pale, angular face was buried in a pile of biology textbooks with only his mop of unruly black curls visible above their covers.

Jim slipped quietly inside, hanging back by the far shelves so he could observe his prey. Sherlock was utterly engrossed in what he was reading. He was muttering to himself and would occasionally throw a book aside so he could grab a spiral notebook and jot something down, but he never looked up. He was twitchy and moved in a halting way, as if he were trying to decide which of a thousand things he should do first. He fidgeted constantly, and his blue eyes could not seem to focus on any one page for an extended period of time. He looked like a man who was right in the middle of a manic episode.

He was perfect.

Now was the time to act. Jim strode confidently across the room, pulled out the chair directly across from him and sat down.

Sherlock ignored him, as he'd guessed he would. He was used to it, much like Jim was: being bothered by people who wanted to see his fascinating gifts and never thought twice about intruding. People who thought they were a novelty. People who thought they could make them dance.

Jim waited.

And waited.

Silently.

Eventually, Sherlock realised he was not going to leave. He also realised he was not going to speak, which was unusual enough. Most people would have explained themselves by now or started chattering on about something painfully boring.

Sherlock finally looked up, and Jim had to restrain himself from shuddering when those pale, omniscient eyes swept over him. He knew what that gaze was doing, deducing him, crawling under his skin, reading his whole life in his hairstyle and the brand of his shoes. It was like a physical touch that probed deeply into him, and Jim had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep his arousal from showing on his face.

It was risky, revealing himself to the man who saw everyting, but he'd taken pains to conceal his identity. A few carefully-planted fibres and a new wardrobe were all it took to throw him off the mark, genius or not. Two could play at this game.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" Jim asked in his fake Northern accent.

"You were born and raised in Yorkshire," Sherlock began in a monotone. He had apparently decided to forego any _intro_ duction and go straight for the  _de_ duction. "Fifteen years old. Only child and a foster child. Affluent. Intelligent. Quiet. Moved to London when your father, no, your mother was promoted. Three dogs. A goldfish. You're on the swim team, and you came here to see if I'm really a freak like the other children say. Hopefully this answers your question."

Jim pulled a look of feigned astonishment. "How did you know all that? That's amazing! You must be psychic." Sherlock was wrong about everything, of course, but he'd come to all the conclusions Jim had wanted him to.

The taller boy rolled his eyes. "Elementary. Now, go away."

"But you haven't told me how you did that."

Sherlock sighed like a man who'd been burdened with many pains in his lifetime. "Accent suggests you're from the North and certainly not London-born. There's pet hair on your jumper, which is old and hand-knitted, but the rest of your clothes are new and much more posh. That means you have pets but came from humble beginnings, such as foster care, and your parents came into some money recently, most likely from a promotion. I know it was your mother from the bit of toothpaste on your lip. If she were around much, she would have caught that and cleaned you up, but she's not thanks to her promotion. You are reasonably tan, yet have no visible tan lines, and your hair is wet. You've just come from swim practice. You were willing to sit here patiently and wait for me to speak, which implies intelligence and many long hours spent in silence every day. That last bit makes siblings highly unlikely."

"What about the goldfish?"

"You're quiet and physically unintimidating. Of course you have a goldfish."

Jim grinned stupidly and let his eyes show shallow wonder. "Right on all counts. That's quite the clever trick you have there."

"It's not a trick. It's deductive reasoning, and I'm not interested in making friends. I would appreciate it very much if you would kindly piss off."

Jim's mouth dropped open in mock anger, and he schooled his expression into one of affront. "That's really mean! I just wanted to—"

"To gawk at me. To make me perform for you like a wind-up toy. To insult my intelligence by calling what I do a trick. To bore me with your plainness. Thanks, but no thanks. Piss off."

For a second, Jim felt his temper flare. He dug his nails even harder into his palms until he felt the warm wetness of blood. He  _hated_  being spoken to like he was anything other than the dazzling prodigy he truly was. It wouldn't do to give himself away so soon, though. He was enjoying himself too much.

Jim forced himself to calm down, to push his anger down, down, down into the roiling pit of his stomach. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, as if he were so outraged by Sherlock's dismissal he could hardly walk. He affected a look of irritation as he moved towards the exit but then grinned from ear to ear as soon as his back was to the other boy.

It was true. It was all true.

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and loathed sentiment and was  _just like him_.

They were going to have so much fun together.

Jim paused at the library entrance, one hand holding the door open, and looked back over his shoulder. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But he just couldn't help himself. Sherlock's face was once again buried in his texts, but Jim knew he was listening intently for the sound of his exit.

"You really are incredible, Sherlock Holmes."

Jim slipped out the door without waiting to see how Sherlock would react to his strange declaration. That had probably been a bit too much of a gamble, but it had been worth it.

He finally had something to look forward to.

…

…

Sebastian Moran was not the most attractive man Jim knew, but he was the most convenient.

Jim was a very physical person. He preferred strangulation as his primary method of murder—he liked to take matters into his own hands, so to speak—and when he was agitated he was frequently prone to fits of violence, ones that would end with him breaking things around his flat or other people's bones if the mood struck him. He liked to touch, to feel, especially just before he destroyed a thing.

Sometimes, however, there was a much simpler way to expend his pent-up frustration.

Sometimes he just needed to plant his dick in something warm and soft and fuck it all out.

Tonight, that something happened to be dear Sebby's mouth.

The larger man knelt in front of him on the floor, his strong, tan hands gripping his thighs reverently. Jim was bent over him, grunting and snarling from his perch on the sofa armrest. He had his trousers pushed down just enough, his zip open and his brightly-coloured underwear shoved down just enough to free his erection. Sebby was taking him in long, powerful gulps that left him breathless, and Jim's fingers were buried in the man's blond hair. He yanked until he felt strands pop out at their roots. The pleasure washing through him was dizzying, thick and hot like a humid night.

Sebastian pulled off him with a wet popping sound and swiped his tongue up the underside of his prick from base to tip.

Jim moaned and let his head fall back. "You're so good at this, my dear. It's like you were born to have a cock in your mouth."

Sebby sank back down on him and hummed in response, and the vibrations wrung another delicious moan from Jim's lips. He loved the buzz of desire bubbling just beneath his skin, the steady thrum of dark need that was slowly being fed by his employee's ministrations.

It wasn't enough, though.

Jim tightened his hold in the other man's hair and shoved down, forcing more of himself into his mouth. He felt Sebby gag and try to pull away, but he only pushed harder. He wanted to  _bury_  himself down his throat, fill his esophagus so completely that no air could get by. He wanted to feel him choking around his cock, growing more and more desperate as he began to suffocate.

But he couldn't have everything he wanted. It wouldn't do to kill his best gunman.

Sebastian opened the back of his throat and allowed Jim to slide deeply into him. He was used to how his boss was at this stage in the game, knew well his possessive, consuming nature. Jim began methodically fucking his mouth, shoving himself in as far as he could go only to pull slowly out again with a tortured moan. Sebastian kept the pressure steady, and the tight, wet heat was just  _perfect._

"Yes," Jim hissed, quickening the pace as he felt a telltale tingle in the pit of his stomach. "Yes, fuck, just like that." He thrust in harder and deeper, setting a rhythm of quick, short thrusts. Sebastian was struggling to breathe, and he knew it. He laughed maniacally, the sound echoing eerily in the room and mingling with the sound of flesh smacking against flesh. He was going too deep, too hard. Sebastian was squirming uncomfortably under his tight hold, and Jim could feel his throat convulsing around him. The sensation spurred him on to even more violent thrusts. Sebastian was digging his fingernails into his thighs, trying to get him to stop, but he only felt himself getting harder the more the other man panicked.

"You must be running out of air," Jim growled as he gave a particularly hard jerk of his hips. "Do you ever wonder if one day maybe I'll go too far? If I won't finish in time, and I'll just watch you die with your lips still wrapped around me?"

He opened his eyes and gazed down at Sebastian.

He could tell from the fearful frown line between the other man's eyes that he considered it a very real possibility.

That look made Jim  _swoon._

He started moving with furious intent, feeling his orgasm looming just out of reach.

He managed to bite out one more question, "Do you wonder if I'd mourn you?"

Sebastian looked up at him blankly, and Jim knew exactly what that look meant.

He came hard, shuddering through wave after wave of pure, excruciating fire. He spurted straight down Sebastian's throat; the man didn't even have space to swallow.

He stayed deep inside him for several long moments, panting heavily and reveling in the moment. When he finally did pull out, Sebastian gasped and collapsed against him. He was sucking in lungfuls of air which let Jim know just how close he'd come to suffocating him.

The consulting criminal ran his fingers almost lovingly through the other man's hair. Perhaps later, if he was in the mood, he'd let Sebastian fuck him as recompense for the rough treatment.

He never questioned why people were so willing to fall before him, to let him use and abuse them and inevitably toss them away.

He was Jim Moriarty: genius psychopath and the most dangerous man in the world.

There was nothing he couldn't have.

"By the way," Jim said casually, too fucking casually for what had just transpired, "did you remember to send that package?"

Sebastian nodded, his throat too abused for him to speak.

"Excellent." Sherlock was in for a surprise in a few days.

…

…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moriarty sends Sherlock a little puzzle, and John has a bad case of allergies.

**Chapter Four written by heretherebefandom**

* * *

It was sitting on the front porch when he got home from his shift at the surgery. Unassuming, really. Standard packaging, postal stamps, Sherlock's name on the front. In fact, if it weren't for the lack of return address, John would have guessed it was from a client. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to receive gifts from satisfied customers. Something about it kept John from simply picking it up, taking it inside, and cracking it open-possibly even keeping the contents for himself if it was something Sherlock would likely ignore-like he would have on any other day. No, this package was different.

Maybe it was because of the string of puzzles from Moriarty a few weeks back, but John had been cautious with presents that wound up on his doorstep ever since. And this package would be no exception.

It was no surprise that Sherlock had watched his arrival from the window of their flat, so when he showed up at the door, swinging it wide and staring down at the package alongside him, no words were needed. Just an occasional glance between them that said, "So what should we do with it?" Eventually, Sherlock nodded, bending down to scoop the package into his arms and rush back into the flat without warning, leaving John to follow blindly and half stunned.

"You're just going to open it?" John gaped, watching in mute horror as Sherlock took a knife from the cutting block and started slicing away at the edges of the box, cutting through the packing tape with elegant flicks of his wrist. Even John could tell he was too intrigued too care. Hell, one could even say he was enjoying himself.

"We'll never know why Moriarty sent it if we don't open it." Sherlock muttered, working on the last edge with a hint more restraint.

"We'll also greatly increase our chances of not dying." John frowned, doing well to put a good twenty feet between him and the box in case it was something set to blow up. Or one of those cakes on a jack-in-the-box spring like in the cartoons. Both seemed well up Moriarty's alley. "How are you even sure it's from him?"

"Handwriting."

"Of course. Because you guys have been keeping up correspondence all this time." John rolled his eyes.

"Only occasionally." Sherlock answered offhandedly, John's brow furrowing in confusion before raising in what could only be described as a disgusted sort of shock. Before John could begin the much needed argument, however, Sherlock cut through the last of the tape with a breathy, excited, "Ah." Gingerly, Sherlock hooked the tips of his fingers beneath the cardboard and opened the box. John winced, waiting for something, anything, to explode and kill them both, but he was met with only the sound of Sherlock reaching inside and pulling something out, a handful of packing peanuts falling silently to the floor in the process.

"Another box." John raised an eyebrow at it, finally deciding it was safe enough to inspect it from closer range. Sherlock turned it over in his hands. It was wrapped in the gaudiest shade of neon green John had ever seen, an elaborate and overzealous pink bow fashioned on top like one would a Christmas present for a drag queen.

"A cigar box." Sherlock deduced. John didn't even bother to ask how he knew. Once the wrapping had been torn away, the bow discarded, John could see the brand and make written along the sides of it, an island scenery painted on the front underneath a piece of paper that said simply, "For Sherlock's Nimble Fingers Only." Yup. Definitely from Moriarty.

"Alright then." John went on when it looked like Sherlock might spend hours alone just staring at the handwriting on the tag, analyzing it, looking for hints in the stroke of the pen, the blot of the ink. Sherlock pulled the note away by the tape, a small, square piece of white cardboard about no bigger than an inch falling to the floor. When John made to pick it up, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, yanking him back upright with a shake of his head.

"My hands only, remember?" The look in his eyes was indifferent, but John knew him well enough to see the caution in them, the very real concern just behind his stoic tone that said if something went wrong it would go very, very wrong. John cleared his throat and nodded in understanding, letting Sherlock pick it up instead, a red exclamation point hand painted on one side like a bleeding cut.

"Pretty sure it was "nimble fingers" though, yeah?" John tried to tease, but it was halfhearted at best, and Sherlock was beyond joking, already wrapped up in this latest distraction Moriarty had quite literally tied up in a bow for him.

Sherlock placed the square in the pocket of his dressing gown and returned his focus to the cigar box, tilting it from side to side, listening to the sound of something-or rather many little somethings-sliding about from end to end. And when Sherlock finally cracked it open, inching the top of the box up slowly and peeking inside, the little somethings turned out to be, "Puzzle pieces?"

Sherlock shook the box a bit, the pieces moving about on top of each other. "Two hundred and forty three of them, to be exact." Sherlock smirked.

John stifled a groan. He hated that smirk, that "I Just Figured Something Out and Find It Amusing but You'll Never Understand Unless You Ask Me" smirk. It was almost as bad as "The Look."

"Is that important? That there're two hundred and forty-three of them?" John asked, albeit reluctantly. Sherlock just shook his head.

"Cigar box, John." Sherlock did all but roll his eyes in disappointment. "He's saying he's been to my website."

"Oh, the two hundred and forty-three different kinds of tobacco ash thing?" John asked, taking Sherlock's silence as explanation. "So it's what? A joke?" Sherlock managed to narrow his eyes at him, to which John threw a glare right back. "First the puzzles, now inside jokes? I'm surprised he hasn't asked Mrs. Hudson permission to court you yet." This time, Sherlock actually did roll his eyes, taking the box out of the kitchen and into the living room, pouring the contents onto the coffee table and taking a seat on the floor in front of it. John plowed on, refusing to be left in the dust again. Not when it came to one of Moriarty's ploys. Even if it meant strangling information out of him, John would not be ill-informed. Being useless meant being a liability. "And what's it got to do with the puzzle pieces then?"

"Nothing yet," Sherlock mumbled, absently, picking up a few pieces and putting them back down. "Maybe nothing at all. I won't know until I put it together."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "As in literally?" The Great Sherlock Holmes, The World's Only Consulting Detective… doing a jigsaw puzzle?

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, not even bothering to look at him. He was already separating the pieces into six groups, though what he could see beyond pieces with edges and pieces without was beyond John.

"Alright then," John nodded, taking a seat on the other side of the coffee table. "I'll help."

"No," Sherlock continued moving pieces around the table, though he stopped long enough to point a stern frown in John's direction. "You can't touch them."

"Right, right, fine," John sighed again. "Then what else can I do? There's got to be something."

But Sherlock was already consumed, offering no more words on the matter. And when the silence stretched on long enough to be uncomfortable, John got back to his feet, dusting off his trousers and grabbing his coat.

"I'm going out then." He said. "Call me if you need anything." He didn't get a response, but he wasn't expecting one.

Not to say that it was beyond his abilities by any means, but Sherlock never realized how difficult the actual assembly of a solid white jigsaw puzzle could actually be. Once the pieces had been organized into six various groupings that determined edge and non-edge, placement of the surrounding teeth, corner, etc., the rest should have been simple. Find the pieces that fit in relation to their corresponding groups. But even with his eidetic memory, all the pieces looked too similar, each section of the slowly forming puzzle taking on average about three attempts per connection.

And it didn't help that, within the first five minutes, the tedium had become almost unbearable. It was almost physically grating. How anyone could find enjoyment in the redundancy, the monotony of the jigsaw puzzle, Sherlock would never understand. But Moriarty had left this for him, had made it very clear that Sherlock was the only one allowed to take part, and after the incident by the swimming pool… Sherlock shook his head, eyes closing for a moment. Never again. He'd never put John in danger like that again, not if he could help it. No, this one was on him. He would solve it on his own, alone, and leave John out of harm's way.

Sherlock reopened his eyes, scanning the holes in the puzzle anew, a few of the missing pieces sticking out around the already formed border. Sherlock put them in their proper places and paused.

Eyebrows furrowing, Sherlock slowly inhaled, trying to recapture that sudden and brief aroma that had passed beneath his nose. There was nothing. But he'd smellt it, he knew he had. And when it came to Moriarty, everything was important.

Silently, Sherlock cursed himself for not examining each piece more carefully before getting to work on the puzzle. It would be counterproductive now to take it apart, but he could still test what was left, see if, by statistical average and probability, each piece was of an identical makeup. Sherlock crawled over to the far end of the table, resting his cheek against the wood. Each piece was smoothed, painted over in what appeared to be thick, white acrylic, sprayed over that with a layer of matte. It had been done by hand, the brush strokes visible and inconsistent. Intentionally so, a pattern of switching diagonal strokes on one row of completed pieces, and then horizontal and vertical strokes on the row beneath it. With his cheek still resting on the table, Sherlock inhaled again. And there it was.

The smell was faint and sweet, barely noticeable under the scents of 221B, but familiar nonetheless. It was a common fact that the strongest memories were triggered by olfaction, and yet Sherlock couldn't seem to place it. It just lingered under his nose and itched at the back of his mind, chipping away at a memory that Sherlock couldn't place. Which meant the smell was either similar to something else that Sherlock's mind was attempting to make an irrelevant connection to-highly unlikely-or the smell was something he'd made no point to recognise, something that had crossed his senses without his knowledge, in passing, making a home for itself out of reflex and not necessity-more likely, but hardly helpful.

Eventually, Sherlock sat up, snagging a handful of pieces and heading to the kitchen, already working through a mental list of possible tests, the solutions mixed and setting within minutes, a few slides put aside and waiting for their turn beneath the microscope. Of course, this was only part one, the rest of the puzzle staring at him impatiently from the living room, waiting for him to put the rest of it together, something he knew would need doing before any true conclusions could be made. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

* * *

"And you're sure it's him?" Lestrade asked carefully, thumb working the handle of his pint glass hard enough that John thought it might break off. He didn't blame Lestrade for being on edge. It had been on his back when the man wasn't caught after the bombings. John felt for him. Moriarty wasn't an easy catch. Maybe that's why he'd called Lestrade up, asked him if he'd meet him at the pub for a chat and a pint. They both knew what Moriarty was capable of. Which meant they both understood the danger Sherlock was in.

John nodded, raising his own pint to his lips and tipping his head back, letting a good few swallows burn their way down his throat, warming his belly. "Unfortunately." He raised the glass in mock toast and Lestrade shook his head, doing the same before taking a few long swallows of his own.

"And the package?" He asked once his beer was half drained. John just shrugged.

"A jigsaw puzzle for Sherlock to put together," John frowned. "Everything's a fucking game to that bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing was set to turn to acid upon completion or something."

"Or blow up," Lestrade offered. John smirked, eyes dark.

"Yeah. Or blow up." He finished off the last of his beer in one go, slamming it down on the bar a bit harder than intended. "Or spontaneously combust and light the whole of Baker street on fire."

Lestrade chuckled, the sort of deep, broken laugh that people laughed right before the world was about to end, the sort of laugh of the hopeless who had nothing left but a bad joke to keep them company. "Maybe after the last piece is added, the whole puzzle will transform into some sort of monster and attack all of London."

"Like Godzilla?" John scoffed, waving at the bartender for another round.

"I was thinking more King Kong." Lestrade said in faux seriousness. "Or like a Dalek or something."

"A Dalek?" John laughed openly this time. "I didn't realise you watched Doctor Who."

Lestrade shrugged, smirking. "Who doesn't?"

"Right," John was legitimately smiling now, if not a bit softly. "So, our theory so far is that the puzzle's gonna turn into a Dalek then?"

"Makes the most sense to me," Lestrade nodded, full out grinning now. "And very Moriarty to have one of the most frightening beings in all time and space at his disposal."

"Oh yeah," John nodded sardonically. "Nothing scarier than the business end of a plunger."

"Hey now!" Lestrade nudged John hard with his elbow, laughing. "Don't knock the Daleks. They used to give me nightmares when I was kid."

"Sorry, sorry," John sniffed, still giggling. "Right, so if it's not the most frightening being in the universe, then what?" There was still a humorous edge to his voice, but it was fading, dying out casually to be replaced once again with the disgust attached to anything Moriarty got his hands on. Especially when it involved Sherlock. "I mean… It could be anything, right?" John sighed. "Those puzzle pieces could have a recipe for Banoffi Pie on it for all we know, and Moriarty's just doing this to distract him from something more important, something that'll probably result in the deaths of thousands, ourselves included." John ran a hand over his face. "And all I can do is just sit here, wondering what's happening and feeling useless." John took another swallow of beer, his throat suddenly dry. Scratchy even. He was talking too much.

He heard the sound of Lestrade's phone going off but it didn't quite register, John's eyes locked on the rim of his glass. He cleared his throat, tried to swallow, but for some reason his mouth wouldn't cooperate with him, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. Lestrade was saying something. Listening, focusing, it was all so hard. Why was it hard?

"-in the alley outside the station." He was saying. "The woman died before the ambulance arrived. The man's in critical condition. They're saying-" John blanked out for a second, heard the words passing through him like listening to the voice on the other end of someone's phone conversation. He shook his head, blinking hard, forcing his mind to focus. "-gone wrong, but the timing's all off, and autopsy on the wife-" Again, focusing becoming nearly impossible now, John's hand shaking on the handle of the glass. His hands never shook. Why were his hands shaking? "-poison your wife and yourself in an alley outside of Scotland Yard? It doesn't make sense, so we're… John?"

Turning his head at the sound of his name. It was purely reflexive, but the room spun away from him before he could even catch Lestrade's gaze, all attempts at hearing words completely lost now, just the concerned tone left behind. And yelling. Why was there yelling? God, it was painful, ringing in his ears, making it hard to breath. No, no wait. It was hard to breathe because his face was pressed against something, tight and heavy and uncomfortable. The bar? No, he was almost inhumanly aware of every pain in his body, including the pounding in his head from colliding with the floor and the throbbing in his nose and left cheekbone from slamming into the bar on the way down. But why had he fallen in the first place? What the bloody fuck was going on?

"-hear me? John? John, stay with-"

He tried to respond, but his throat felt disconnected from his body, his mouth too heavy to open. It was a wonder he was even breathing. Was he breathing? He tried not to think about it. At some point he must have closed his eyes. Either that or gone blind. Preferably not the latter. He heard Lestrade saying his name again, but this time it was too distant, all vowels, whispering in the back of his mind alongside the image of white puzzle pieces and two words: Poison and Sherlock.

* * *

He almost didn't answer his phone, assumed that Lestrade had a case for him and he was much, much too busy for that. But for some reason he answered it anyway, half paying attention, half refocusing the microscope to see if maybe there was something he'd missed at higher magnification.

"Sorry, can't talk, too-" Sherlock started, but before he could get any further, Lestrade's voice was loud and persistent in his ear, cutting him off with words like  _poison_  and  _unconscious_ and  _John_. Sherlock stood up, all of his attention on Lestrade. "Where are you now? Is he all right?"

"We don't know," Lestrade sighed deeply, panic easily heard beneath the façade he'd worked up all his years on the force. "There was another couple, an hour or so ago, the wife was found dead at the scene. Poisoned. The husband's still in hospital. We're thinking he was poisoned, too." Lestrade's voice got lower. "The paramedic said he was acting just like John when they brought him in."

Sherlock hung up the phone, already halfway to his coat before he realized what he was doing. As much as he wanted, no  _needed_  to see if John was okay, he couldn't afford to go. Not if this puzzle and John's sudden illness had anything to do with each other. And with Moriarty involved, there was no such thing as coincidence. So, swallowing down a groan of frustration, Sherlock called Lestrade back and took to pacing the flat instead. Infuriatingly, Lestrade answered on the third ring.

"Tell me everything. What are his symptoms? Where is he being kept? Where were you both when this happened? Quickly, Lestrade. We hardly have time to waste." Lestrade paused a total of 2.7 seconds before answering, explaining in as much detail as he could manage exactly what he recalled from the pub. Which, of course, wasn't nearly enough detail at all. "Did you see anyone slip something into his drink? Was there anything out of the ordinary about the bartender? Come on!"

"No, nothing." Lestrade replied, voice tight. "One minute everything was completely normal, and the next-No wait." Lestrade stopped, as if going over something in his head first. Sherlock openly groaned. "When I first got there, sat next to him, I mean… Well, I thought he was wearing some sort of new cologne at first. But I ignored it."

"And? What did it smell like?"

"Um… I don't know really. Floral maybe? Kind of… fruity? That's why I thought it seemed strange. It was almost like a woman's shampoo or something."

Sherlock hung up again, rushing back to the coffee table and lowering his nose to the puzzle pieces, nearly touching them as he breathed in. That was it. That borderline, floral scent. Something that had clung to John's skin after coming home from one of his many dates. A perfume maybe? Something that, to Sherlock, would have been otherwise ignored. Something that could have been sprayed onto the skin. Or into a jacket. Something that would stick for weeks in the leather, slowly working its way into John's system, the scent fading from the jacket but still occasionally released from his pores.

And something that could have been sprayed on a handful of puzzle pieces by the same "woman", the scent mostly fading by the time the post arrived.

Sherlock redialed, barely allowing for Lestrade to answer. "I have a sample of the poison. When I find out what it is, I'll contact you. Don't bother me until then." He made to hang up, thumb freezing over the disconnect button, but instead, he held it back to his ear. "Actually," he cleared his throat. "Will you be there? At the hospital with him?"

"Of course," Lestrade replied without hesitation. Sherlock nodded to himself.

"Then… Text me if anything changes." He hung up. For some reason, his face felt hot, his heart hammering painfully against his chest. For a second, he thought maybe the poison on the puzzle pieces was finally taking effect, but that wasn't it at all. No. He was angry. Uncharacteristically, insurmountably angry. He'd been angry before, furious even. But this, this was a desperate, all-consuming anger inside of him, one that fueled him back in front of the puzzle with new-found determination not just to beat Moriarty's depraved game, but to save John. And he would. With time to spare. Especially now that he had another important clue:

Why wasn't the poison killing him?

Either it simply hadn't worked its way into his system yet-which was unlikely considering his work with the puzzle pieces and how much time he spent in close proximity to John-or somehow, Sherlock had come across a sort of antidote, something that John wouldn't have come in contact with. Something John wouldn't have eaten, smelled, touched-

Sherlock's fingers had been diligently piecing together as much of the puzzle as quickly as he could, but something in his train of thought had halted them. What though? There was something important, something clever there waiting for him to recognise it, but what was it? What had he uncovered? Sherlock went over his exact thought in his head once, twice, eyes scanning the puzzle simultaneously, the pieces fitting together as if by sheer will.

_Some sort of antidote… Something John wouldn't have come in contact with…_

There were only a few pieces left now, a few new details coming together just like they would in a case, each fragment of information pulled to eventually form a complete thought, a complete solution. And here, as the pieces began forming a solid white square, Sherlock could look at it afresh, objectively, notice what may not have been available to notice before: the brush strokes differing at the bottom left corner of the mostly completed piece, the light catching on the white acrylic to show a new solvent layered in places atop the matte spray. And most importantly, the missing bottom left corner of the completed puzzle, no more pieces to be found. Just a vacant square of empty space.

_Some sort of antidote… Something John wouldn't have eaten, smelled, touched…_

Sherlock's mind was whirling, as it always was when he was on the brink of discovery: uncovering never before seen chemical compounds, making that final connection in a case that had the whole thing unraveling before him like one of John's poorly made sweaters. It was as though he could see everything at once, an ever growing web of facts and truths and answers, stretching out in front of him like a map, like the collages he tacked up above the mantle, tied together, linked by lengths of string and information. Connected. Everything was connected, and he could see it all, could practically touch it, could feel the conclusion as though it was already within his grasp.

_Some sort of antidote…_

Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over the bottom left hand corner, across the pieces with the unique brush strokes and on to where the puzzle ended in empty space. An inch by inch of empty space.

_Something only my hands would have touched._

Sherlock stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the table back in the process. "Oh. Oh, oh, oh!" He shoved his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown, scrambling for the inch by inch square of white cardboard and holding it up to the light, the red exclamation point staring at him purposely, practically saying, "What took you so long?" Sherlock grinned, falling back to his knees and placing the square in the empty spot, another gear falling into place. Punctuation then. But what was it punctuating? The words had to be written in some sort of invisible ink leading up to the exclamation point, some clue that would bring an end to this, and hopefully reveal the antidote that would save John. Sherlock took the exclamation back into hand, holding it at the points between his thumb and forefinger. Something on this piece had saved him.

And now that he knew that, he could compare the two, figure out the poison based on the negating properties of the square. But first.

Sherlock leaned back against the foot of the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Hands clasped and fingertips pressed against his lips, he began going through each test he'd done on the puzzle pieces, mentally categorizing each compound, each component. Acrylic, cardboard, paper, remnants of silicone from the brush, the unidentified poison, and on a few pieces, something more. Something natural and out of place. Something he'd completely overlooked as he did whenever it popped up. Because he was in the kitchen.

"Sodium Bicarbonate." Baking Soda. Which was one of the few natural solvents that would only show up… Sherlock grinned, jumping to his feet. "It wouldn't have been simple, of course not. The common substances in invisible ink would have been completely avoided, anything that would reveal under black light too, probably. And heating would have been the obvious second choice." He spun around once, clapping his hands together. "So clearly, that only leaves development by chemical reaction."

He raced to the kitchen, opening the fridge door hard enough for it to swing back as he dug haphazardly through the few unspoiled groceries. "And what reveals sodium bicarbonate?" There, in the very back of the fridge, the final remnants from a pack John had brought back from Tesco a few months ago, was a half empty can of, "Grape soda." A little on a paper towel dabbed lightly across the bottom left of the puzzle and the sodium bicarbonate residue began to darken, slowly, too slowly, forming the words:

**WELL DONE!**

Sherlock blinked. "That's it?" It was like being slapped in the face, his jaw dropping in the sort of shock he would never get used to. And never admit. "No. No, that can't be it… All two-hundred and forty-three pieces… for a pat on the back…?" Sherlock closed his eyes, pinched this side of painfully at the bridge of his nose. And then, without thinking, he swiped his hands across the table, sending the pieces scattering across the floor. "Well done!" He yelled. "That's all you're going to give me?!" The rage flared hot before simmering, pounding in his blood, but just under the surface, his mind already racing. "Fine. I have all I need. I can do it on my own." He turned back towards the kitchen. He had the tests, he had the pieces, he just needed to compare and contrast. Time might be an unknown variable, but he would do it in time. He couldn't afford not to.

As if on cue, one of the puzzle pieces caught his eye, a dark scribble on the brown backing where the grape soda had bled through the cracks. Sherlock was on the floor in an instant, flipping over every scattered piece and gathering them together in a pile. Just to be certain, he dabbed each strip of cardboard with soda and waited, seeing if it was a single piece, a fluke, another distraction, but no. After a too long moment, on five separate pieces appeared a word each, this time spelling out:  **It Was You Or Peanuts.**

Sherlock all but jumped for joy.

* * *

Coming to was like trying to swim through molasses, everything heavy and hard to move past, breathing difficult and sometimes impossible, vision fading in and out as his focus wavered. John Watson was all too familiar with the discombobulating feeling of blacking out and struggling back into consciousness. It was a common occurrence in the war and surprisingly more common when working with Sherlock. But this was different. This was like trying to break down a whole wall with a chisel. Eventually, he managed to get a decent visual on his surroundings, not too surprised to find he was in a hospital, the white walls and lights bright enough to force his eyes closed again giving it away. He tried to sit up, his chest squeezing painfully. No sitting yet. Alright. Full regiment then: neck-sore but fine, shoulders-stiff but moveable, arms, hands, and fingers-all fine if not in a considerable amount of pain, legs… John stiffened. His legs weren't moving. That's alright. Don't jump to conclusions, just breathe. Lower then. John wiggled his toes easily, a breath of relief escaping him. So then his legs. He tried one more time, feeling a slight shift and a heavy pressure. With some effort, John opened his eyes, raising his head as much as the angle of the hospital bed would allow, and looked down at his legs. Now that  _was_  a surprise.

Folded over his knees, keeping his legs almost completely immobile, was the obvious, dark coated form of a sleeping Sherlock. John felt his chest squeeze in a way that was completely unrelated to whatever had put him in the hospital. He swallowed. How long had Sherlock been here? Why wasn't he back in the flat, pining over Moriarty's puzzle? Was the case over?

"Sher-" John tried to wake the man, but the name got caught in his throat, a sudden bout of coughing causing Sherlock to jerk to his feet, at John's side almost instantaneously.

"John," He was saying, one hand on John's shoulder, keeping him pressed back against the pillow, the other pouring him a glass of water. "John, breathe. It's alright, just drink this." He handed John the water who tipped it back slowly, letting the liquid wet his throat, breathing becoming substantially less difficult. "You've been out for three days. Dry throat is one of the few remaining effects of the poison."

"So it  _was_  poison." John croaked. "The puzzle pieces?" A look of rage flashed across Sherlock's face before falling back into his normal, calm façade.

"Before that. Leading up to it," Sherlock explained. "You were the final clue."

John frowned, not quite following. Or maybe choosing not to. "You used me to solve the case?"

"Moriarty did." Sherlock sat back down next to John's bed. "He knew I would work faster, try harder to figure it out if…" He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter, not quite looking at John anymore. "Well, he's always known I only have one weakness."

John stared at Sherlock for a long while after that. Surely that was the morphine talking. Surely he had to be dreaming. Because if he wasn't… "And what weakness might that be?" John all but whispered. Sherlock just looked at him and rolled his eyes. John smirked. "So, Moriarty poisoned me."

Sherlock smirked back. "So to speak."

"So to speak?"

"The chemical he used altered the makeup of your allergenic pattern."

John frowned. "So all of this was an allergic reaction? Moriarty  _made me_  allergic to something?"

"Over time. He sprayed the chemical into your jacket at the restaurant a few weeks ago."

"What am I allergic to then?"

Sherlock looked like he was trying not to blush. "Me."

John's eyes widened. "I'm allergic to  _you_?"

"Used to be." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, eyes shining with the facts of the case. "And not me exactly, but something about me. My cologne, my shampoo. We share enough at the flat that it could have been anything." John felt himself flush, though he had no idea why. Thankfully, Sherlock was on too much of a roll to notice. "The only reason I had no reaction was the antidote Moriarty left for me."

"On the puzzle pieces?"

"Well, one of them, but basically yes." Sherlock held up a hand. "My nimble fingers only, remember?"

John narrowed his eyes and let out a breath. It was all so complicated, wasn't it. Just to keep the geniuses distracted. And this time it had almost killed him. "Sherlock," John forced himself to sit up, cringing at the way his body tried to refuse him. The look of concern on Sherlock's face was involuntary, but John caught it. It warmed him somehow, made him feel safe. But he wasn't safe, was he? "Sherlock, I almost died. Didn't I?"

Sherlock's face fell, lips tightening into a hard line. "I wouldn't have let that happen."

"And next time? He's not going to stop, Sherlock. Moriarty's bat shit insane, and he's never going to stop. Not until we're both institutionalized or dead or, or-"

"Worse?" Sherlock offered. John smirked.

"Yeah. Or worse."

There was a silence then, one that lingered not quite uncomfortably, but tense enough for Sherlock to feel the need to break it, which was unexpected. Though not as much as the look in his eyes, an expression John wasn't used to seeing: panic. As if to cover it up, Sherlock looked away from John, past him and out the window at the back of the hospital room.

"So, then the best thing to do would be for you to find yourself a safer living environment."

John paled. "Excuse me?"

"I can keep tabs on Moriarty," Sherlock kept on.

John ran a hand over his face. "Wait…" But Sherlock was persistent.

"I'll find a way to make sure he doesn't involve you from here on out."

"Sherlock, I-"

"And that way you can-"

"Jesus, Sherlock! Hang on!" John cut him off, Sherlock's eyes widening in surprise. "Are you trying to get rid of me or something?"

"No!" The response was instant, without hesitation. And John couldn't help but take a sick sort of satisfaction that Sherlock was this riled up. Over him. "Of course not… I only thought… I just don't want you to-"

"What makes you think I'd even  _want_ to go anywhere else?" John continued, adding almost to himself, "Or that I could." Before he could stop himself, John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "What I'm saying, Sherlock, is that as long as he's around, no one is safe. You especially. And I refuse to just sit back and wait for something to happen to you."

"John?" Sherlock was looking at him now with a stare so intense it was hard not to look away. But John kept his gaze locked on his flatmate, his friend, brown eyes on bluish grey that could be so cold and so warm all at the same time. John felt Sherlock's hand turn beneath his, holding on, tightening, a sort of electricity racing up John's arm and into his chest. Whether it went beyond platonic, John was too in pain and too focused to think on just yet. All he knew for sure was that he would die to protect Sherlock, and if that meant going head to head with Moriarty, then so be it. For Sherlock Holmes, it was worth it.

"What I'm saying," John repeated, tightening Sherlock's hand right back, a look of determination on his face. "Is that we have to stop waiting. We need to find him and take him down."

* * *

It was only days after John got out of the hospital that the first of Moriarty's letters arrived.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of letters from James Moriarty.

…

…

**A letter from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 27** **th** **of June**   


Dearest Sherlock,

By now you've undoubtedly identified who I am from my handwriting (male, early to mid 30s, left-handed, spiky lettering indicating manic tendencies and an impulsive nature), so I hope you'll forgive me for failing to properly address the envelope. I wanted to draw out the suspense for just a few more precious moments. Of course, you know that means I dropped this letter off personally. I was standing on your doorstep, in full view of the public, just minutes before you came home. Does that surprise you? Irritate you? You know what a fan I am of good showmanship. After the precedent I've set, I would hate to disappoint you.

And now you're rolling your eyes at the paper and wishing I would just get on with it. I can perfectly picture it: you, standing in your flat by that armchair where your idiot pet likes to curl up, holding my letter in your long fingers and twitching slightly because you haven't yet had a chance to slap on a nicotine patch or three. If I may offer a bit of advice, go ahead and smoke. You've really no need to fret about the health risks.

I know what you're thinking.

Why?

That's what you're always wondering when it comes to me, aren't you? What's it all been for? Why do I love to play these little games with you? And why do you love them every bit as much as I do? I urge you not to flatter yourself too much, my dear. It isn't—believe it or not—always about you. I have my hand in quite a few things at the moment (and some bodies, but you'll discover those for yourself soon enough), and much as I do love to send you puzzles, I have to prioritise.

And so! I've decided to keep in touch the old-fashioned way. My bombs are a much quicker method of getting your attention, but for now this will have to do. Letters should never have gone out of style. They're so romantic, so  _intimate._  It takes time and energy to form every character on the page, so much more than a simple keystroke. You can see everything in a person's penmanship, judge their mood from the blots and scratch-outs. I don't understand how anyone could prefer e-mails or texts when they could have  _this._ I hope you appreciate it as much as I do. You don't, though, do you? You have no taste for sentiment. I don't blame you in the slightest in that regard, but that's not what this is, Sherlock.

Have you figured out what this is yet?

I digress. I'm certain you've already deduced how prone I am to that, even though we've had so little time together. It's rather difficult to keep a brilliant mind like mine on a single track, but then you're familiar with what that's like.

You don't spend much time on  _why_  with people besides me. You're usually more focused on  _how._  How did they hide the body? How did he break into a flat on the 23rd floor? How did she go from being in a room that was locked from the inside to dead in the middle of a field? I'm flattered that you deign to entertain another question in my case. Why do we keep playing these games? Since you're so desperate to understand, I'll indulge you: you need me, and I want you.

Much as I do mean "want" in a sexual sense, take a moment to think about the nuances.

I'm being kind, Sherlock. I know how much you hate to be bored, and since I can't very well go about committing clever murders every day, I'm sending you something to distract you. Something to occupy that brilliant brain of yours. Dare I say it? Something to remember me by. Will you keep my letters? Stow them away in a shoe box under your bed? Or will you toss them in your bins along with your rubbish and your idle heart? Perhaps you'll burn them so no other eyes but yours will ever sweep over these words. What will you say to your pet if he should happen to find one?

Perhaps someday you'll tell me.

Until that day comes, you have, as always, all my love and devotion.

JM

…

…

**A postcard from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 12** **th** **of July**   


My darling,

I bet this is a bit unexpected, isn't it? A postcard from me, and stamped from Bermuda nonetheless! You probably think I'm off stirring up trouble abroad, but rest assured I'm on my best behaviour (though I suppose that's saying very little indeed.) Sebastian and I (Have I ever told you about my precious Sebby? I know I mentioned that I wanted to get a live-in one…) have decided to spend some time relaxing in the sun. I've never liked how even in the dead of summer in London, it's only 15 degrees. Not that Dublin was much better when I was growing up, but still. I wanted a real summer this year. I'll be back in a few short weeks. Try not to miss me too much, my dear.

I have to ask, though. Have you wondered about it yet? If I'm really where this postcard says I am? Or is this just a clever ploy to throw you off my trail?

I can tell you right now, you'll never know.

All my love,

JM

…

…

**A rolled up piece of paper within a corked wine bottle from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 1** **st** **of August**   


Dear Sherly,

You can't tell me you don't love this one. How  _did_  I manage it? How did I know you'd be standing at the bank of the Thames, looking out over the water, at the precise moment this bottle would go bobbing past you? How did I know your keen eyes would spot the piece of paper inside, and your curiosity would be piqued? It's simple, my dear. It's because I know  _you._

I know you used to read those adventure books when you were a child. You turned your nose up at them and sniffed when your insufferable brother offered them to you, but then you snuck into the library at night and plucked them eagerly from the shelves. I know you love the concept of a message in a bottle, a hopeless plea for salvation cast out into the abyss. I bet you played shipwreck all the time, acted out the fantasy in your sandbox and composed hundreds of versions of your own final words. Did you ever send any of them out into the world? Did you roll them up, slip them carefully into a bottle, and then watch them float away, your little heart racing wildly at the idea that someday, someone might read them?

It's silly of me to ask questions I already know the answer to.

I don't think you understand just how long I've been watching you.

This is a present, love. I hate to state the obvious, but sometimes I wonder if perhaps my intentions are only obvious to me in your case. I'm answering your plea. I've sent you your very own message in a bottle, a childhood dream come true. Aren't I just the sweetest thing?

Are you wondering how I always seem to know where you are? Does it bother you that I understand so much about you—your weaknesses, your soft underbelly, the things that you try to hide—yet you know almost nothing about me? It must eat you up inside to be so thoroughly ignorant, to see nothing but what I want you to see. Am I Jim from IT or aren't I?

It's all right, though, love. I forgive you. It won't do you any good regardless.

Enjoy your present. Was it everything you'd hoped it would be?

Tenderly,

JM

…

…

**Several hundreds of sticky notes, covering every inch of the walls in 221B's living room, from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 8** **th** **of August**   


Sherlock,

You

Already

Know

I've

Been

Breaking

Into

Your

Flat.

I

Figured

There

Wasn't

Any

Harm

In

Making

The

Extent

Of

My

Access

Perfectly

Clear

To

You.

I

Didn't

Take

Anything

This

Time

But

I

Did

Leave

Quite

A

Few

Things

Behind.

Do

Look

After

Them

For

Me,

Will

You,

Dear?

Well,

The

Things

That

Don't

Explode,

That

Is.

Oh,

And

Enjoy

The

Sketches

I

Left

On

The

Rest

Of

These

Notes.

I

Hate

To

Spoil

The

Surprise

But

In

The

Interest

Of

Responsible

Viewership,

I'll

Warn

You

Ahead

Of

Time:

Most

Of

Them

Are

Diagrams

Of

Precisely

How

I

Would

Cut

You

Open

And

Rip

Out

The

Heart

You

So

Selfishly

Withhold

From

Me.

I

Think

You'll

Find

The

Individual

Incisions

Fascinating.

The

Rest

Of

The

Notes

Detail

The

Various

Positions

I

Would

Twist

You

Into

Before

I

Fucked

Your

Pretty

Little

Brain

Out

Of

Your

Skull.

You

Can

Think

Of

Some

Of

Your

Own

While

You're

Plucking

Each

Of

These

Notes

From

Your

Walls.

Or

Perhaps

You'll

Make

Your

Pet

Do

It

For

You?

Will

He

Blush

Dark

Red

When

He

Sees

The

Things

I

Want

To

Do

To

You?

Will

He

Ache

With

Jealousy?

I

Think

He

Will.

Poor

Widdle

Doggie

Needs

A

Bone,

And

You

Just

Won't

Give

Him

One.

See

You

Very

Soon.

JM

…

…

**A cocktail napkin left on the counter of Lucky's Pub from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 12** **th** **of August.**   


Hey honey,

You have arrived, unfortunately, just a few minutes too late. While I would be more than delighted to grab a pint with you sometime—as we could have done had we spent the evening together at this establishment instead of chasing each other across London—I'm afraid my work is commandeering all of my attention at the moment. To be literal, my work is currently ticking under the third table from the left of the jukebox. Please don't bother trying to call in a bomb squad; you barely have time to run away from it, let alone get someone near.

Oh, and I suggest you get on that, by the way. The running bit. You've only seconds left.

Forever yours,

JM

…

…

**A folded sheet of paper left on the bedside table of Mr Sherlock Holmes from Mr James Moriarty.**

  
**Date: 16** **th** **of August**   


Sleeping Beauty,

I watched you as you slept last night. It's not an activity you engage in frequently—as you're well aware—so it's a rare treat for me to be able to observe you in that defenceless state. You look irritatingly young when asleep, like you looked the first time we spoke. You don't remember that day; I took pains to make sure you wouldn't give me a second thought, but I remember it. I remember you. Your face was softer then, still angular but puberty had yet to finish chiseling your cheekbones and other secondary sex characteristics. Your hair was thicker and every bit as unruly. You were rude, arrogant and brilliant, so that much hasn't changed a bit. You were yet to know the sharp tang of cocaine coursing through your veins, acrid and biting like the taste of ozone. It's a wonder you made it through your addiction with so little damage to your good looks. Most of the addicts I know aren't nearly as pretty after the drugs have finished ravaging them. In fact, they're usually dead, though the substances aren't always to blame for that.

I almost crawled into bed with you last night.

I had to bite my lip until it bled to resist the urge. Sorry, but I dribbled some blood on your sheets. I wondered how you'd react to feeling my arms wrap around you. Perhaps you'd start awake, bleary with sleep and wondering for a moment where you were. It would be glorious to see your genius addled in that way. Would your heartbeat race until I could feel it pounding against my chest? Would you struggle as my arms began to tighten around you? Would you call out for help? Scream, perchance to dream? The endless scenarios quite nearly drove me mad, though to be fair it's rather difficult to be madder than I already am. Of course, there was always the small hope in the back of my mind that you'd give in already and let me have you.

You belong to me, you know. You were mine the very day I became aware of your existence, the second I realised what you were. You are me, and no matter how much you resist, I  _will_  have you. I'll suck you into me, and we'll be one. You'll dissolve into my bloodstream like a 7% solution, and my veins will itch with the feel of you.

I carry a knife in my coat pocket.

It's the one I used to kill that American the police found in a ginnel last month, the one whose death they blamed on his brother. You said the case was too boring and refused to look at it. The wrong man will spend his life in prison because you didn't find him entertaining enough. I digress again, however: we're talking about the knife. I'm usually uninterested in tools of any sort besides people, but there is always an exception. There's something satisfying about how primitive knives are. Been around since the dawn of time, they have. You insert the sharp edge into the thing you want to kill, it flops about for a bit, and then it dies. Freud would have something to say about my fascination with the process. My desire to penetrate, so to speak. He would say it's all sexual, all because my mummy must have touched me in a bad way when I was a baby. He could very well be right, in that respect, because as I watched you tonight—vulnerable and soft beneath your blankets—the urge to thrust my knife into your chest and watch your eyes fly open with alarm was unbearable.

I very nearly killed you tonight while you slept. I really am far too impulsive for my own good. Or your good, for that matter.

I have this odd thing, Sherlock, when I love something. I can't stand how much I love it. I want to  _consume it_ , to break it into the tiniest pieces I can and see everything that it is. I want to have everything about it, especially the intimacy of its final, gasping breath. That's why I couldn't stop myself when I reached into my pocket, extracted my knife, and then trailed the tip of it lightly down your cheek.

I felt it when you woke up. You didn't open your eyes, change your steady breathing or move in any way, but I felt your awareness slither over my skin. You were deducing me with your eyes closed. You were assessing how much immediate danger you were in and debating what the best course of action would be. You were waiting to see what I would do, and you wanted to be ready for me. It would have been so easy, to press the knife down into bone and tissue. You never would have had a chance to defend yourself. The knife would have gone through your skull and into your brain before you could do much more than cry out in pain. You were helpless, and my will was the only thing keeping you alive.

I have never before been so utterly aroused. I could feel your panic and your unwillingness to give in to it. Your brilliance. Your stubborn refusal to admit you weren't in control of the situation. Your  _fear._  Oh, it was so sexy. I almost came right then and there.

Sorry I had to dash off like I did, but I didn't quite feel up for an altercation.

We'll just have to do it again sometime.

I slipped right past your pet to leave you this letter, by the way. It was this afternoon while you were off on a case. Did you not even tell him I broke in? He was standing in the kitchen, making tea with his back turned. I walked right through your front door, skipped the creaky step on the stairs, darted into your room and left you this, all without him so much as glancing over his shoulder. I guess he's not much of a guard dog, is he?

I'll think of you tonight when I'm in my bed, naked, panting, with a hand wrapped around myself and your name on my lips. I'll think of the blood on your sheets and the subtle stiffness in your limbs when you awoke and began to panic. I can already feel how hard I'm going to come. I think your fear, so poorly masked by your hauteur, is what I love most about you. It's something you give to so few people. I promise I'll treasure it to your last breath.

Sweet dreams,

JM

…

…

**An ancient Chinese scroll, spattered with blood, from Mr James Moriarty to Mr Sherlock Holmes.**

  
**Date: 3** **rd** **of September.**   


Sherlock Holmes,

You inconsiderate bitch.

I'd congratulate you for solving your most recent case, but I must admit I'm a touch too enraged at the moment. You've worked it out, of course, how the curators at the museum were removing the ink from those scrolls and rewriting the passages on them. It's the same method I used on this one, actually. This did have an incredibly valuable, undiscovered poem from one of the Ming Dynasty's greatest scholars on it—I'd planned to sell it to a private collector for a frankly obscene amount of money—but I'm in a destructive mood right now. That poem will never be read. The world will never be moved by its elegance and strength. It's gone, erased forever, and it's your fucking fault.

Bastard. You stupid,  _stupid_  bastard.

This wasn't supposed to end this way. You were not supposed to stick your nose into this one, Sherly. I should have known better than to let the museum director handle the explosives. The man was a simpering idiot with no spine. I'm sure you've noticed that I referred to him in the past tense just then. You already know why. You might have even got the call from Scotland Yard by now. Have fun cleaning that one up, because I'm having a fucking blast cleaning up the charred remains of what was a brilliant plan. Note my use of the word "blast".

I haven't been unkind to you, Sherlock. I played with you when you were bored; I sent you little puzzles to solve; I lavished you with the attention you so desperately crave. So why,  _oh why_ , do you insist on making me hurt you? You're lucky Sebastian was around when I got the call this morning. He took the brunt of my anger. That's his blood you see spattering the page. I'm not sure if he'll ever regain the use of his right eye, but I suppose if anyone could pull off an eye patch, it'd be him.

You're next, though.

I can't look the other way this time. I told you once that if you didn't stop prying I would burn you.

I meant it.

You know what your problem is? You don't  _understand._  You're starting to remind me of little Carl Powers. He thought he was safe. He too thought he couldn't die. You never want to remind me of him, Sherlock. You can't let the spell be broken. You can't ever,  _ever,_  let me discover that secretly, deep down in the black pit you call a soul, you're just an ordinary man.

It would break my heart to discover that, even as I stopped yours.

Be ready.

It's coming.

JM

…

…

**Spray paint on the door of 221B Baker Street from Mr James Moriarty.**

You miserable cunt. STOP FUCKING WITH ME. I don't want this to end so soon. Why won't you just STOP?

…

…

**A single sheet of paper found on the ground outside of the origin of the fire: 221B Baker Street from Mr James Moriarty to Dr John Hamish Watson.**

  
**Date: 4** **th** **of September**   


Pet,

Tell your Master to watch his arse. It's not delicious enough to save him from me. I've burned your beloved home to the ground, and next I'm coming for his heart. Guess it's back to the pound for you, isn't it, mutt? Maybe this time you'll be smart enough to find yourself a less incendiary owner.

Sincerely,

JM

…

…


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Okay, so obviously this has been on hiatus. My writing partner bailed on me, so I'm going to have to come up with an ending for this myself. It will have an ending, though, I promise! I won't leave you guys hanging. Here's some porn and domestic bliss to make up for the utter psychopathic-ness that was my last chapter.

…

…

"Seb!" Jim called over his shoulder and into the other room. He nudged a pair of trousers aside and sighed. This was really starting to irritate him. There was no response, so he yelled louder, "Sebastian!"

"What?" asked a faint, disembodied voice.

"Have you seen my suit?" James Moriarty was currently standing in front of his open wardrobe, scanning a line of perfectly pressed suits hanging in a neat row. He was naked, as he often was when lazing about his flat, but he wouldn't be that way for long. He had an important meeting to attend in less than an hour, and he was going to have to don his battle kit for it. The suits were arranged according to colour, from black to light charcoal to navy blue, and there was even one on the far end that was stark white.

His favorite, however—a jet black number punctuated by red pin stripes and a satin-lined interior—was not amongst their number. It was perfect for where he was going: an exclusive sex club in central London that catered only to homosexual males. The owner was in trouble with the Russian mafia and needed Jim's help, which he had no intention of giving. He wanted to not only look professional but also sexy as hell in the process. A lot of potential clients were going to be there, and it was imperative that he made a lasting impression. Not that he needed an excuse to dress up.

This particular suit hugged every inch of his body like an eager lover and emphasised the darkness of his eyes, making him look like walking sin. It did him no good if he couldn't find it, however, and none of his other options made quite the same statement.

Sebastian poked his head into the room, his blond hair wet and disheveled. He must have just had a shower. "Which one are you looking for? You have dozens."

Jim grinned. Touché. "My new Versace one. I could have sworn I hung it up after it came back from the launderette. I still can't believe I couldn't go a day without getting blood on myself."

After another cursory scan of his wardrobe's contents—as if the suit would magically reappear if he willed it to do so—he turned to his right-hand man. Seb was shifting from foot to foot, studiously refusing to meet his gaze. Jim's face darkened. "What did you do?"

"I sort of . . . tried it on." He held up his hands defensively as Jim stalked angrily towards him. "It just looked so good on you, I thought I might see how it favoured me."

"Sebastian," Jim said, his voice quiet and frighteningly controlled, "flattery will get you nowhere right now. You know damn well you're two suit sizes bigger than me."

"I know," He stepped fully into the room, "which is why the jacket sort of . . . ripped." He certainly had a soldier's build, what with his broad shoulders and plentiful musculature. Seb made Jim look downright slender. He was currently clothed in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans that had clearly not come pre-ripped. It was the opposite of how Jim dressed, unless he was playing a role.

Jim smacked Seb hard across the face before he could so much as flinch. A red hand print bloomed across Sebastian's cheek, and the sniper rubbed it soothingly.

"What the fuck do you mean it  _ripped_?" Jim's tone was low and dangerous. Sebastian was much bigger than him: taller and stockier and more than capable of beating him to a pulp. But he wouldn't. Jim had complete control over him, and they both knew it.

"I'm sorry," Sebastian said slowly, obviously preparing for another blow from the way he kept half-twitching away. "I pulled it on too quickly, and it split before I could pull it off. The rip was clean, though. I've already sent it to your tailor for repair."

Jim grit his teeth in a close approximation to a wolf baring its fangs but managed to rein in his temper. Sebastian was obviously trying to make amends for his mistake. He had to give him credit for that.

"Fine," he said sourly when his mood had once again stabilised. It surprised even him sometimes how quickly he could go from casual to murderous, "but it had better look brand fucking new when I get it back.  _Because it is._ "

Sebastian moved forward again, obvious relief on his face. "It will, baby. I swear." He put his hands on Jim's bare hips and stroked the protruding bone with his thumbs. Jim allowed the touch, though he was still cross about his suit. Seb leant forward and pressed their foreheads together in a gesture Jim had learned to recognise as affectionate. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to rip your suit. I hate when you're angry with me."

Seb brought their mouths tentatively together, waiting for permission. Jim toyed briefly with the idea of biting him before deciding he was hornier than he was irritated. He parted his lips and deepened the kiss. Angry or not, his lover was a phenomenal kisser, and he would never turn down the chance to have a good snogging session.

Sebastian leapt at the opportunity to redeem himself, stroking Jim's tongue with his own languidly. He moved slowly at first, letting the kiss evolve on its own. Jim couldn't help but melt against him. Seb was thrusting in with certainty now, wet and hot and tasting like rain. He was imitating the motions they made when they had sex, and the comparison shot straight between Jim's legs. He could feel his skin heating up, even as Sebastian pressed him back into the wall.

Much as he was the dominant one in this relationship, he loved when Seb took control, pinned him down and forced him to take what he gave him. It was probably  _because_  he was the dominant one that he enjoyed it so thoroughly. It was nice not having to think for once. When Seb's hands slid to his wrists, grabbed them firmly, and forced them against the wall by his head, it was all he could do not to break the kiss just so he could moan. He loved the feel of Seb's strong, warm body against his, holding him in place with his presence as much as his hands.

Jim wrapped a leg around his waist, completely unconscious of the fact that he was naked. The movement opened him up, and Seb sank between his thighs with a groan. They were both half-hard already, and the friction quickly sent the rest of their blood rushing south. Seb ground against him leisurely, wringing moans from his lips between kisses that left him breathless.

"All right," Jim murmured against Seb's mouth. "I forgive you."

"Shame," Seb replied, his voice deepened with lust. "Angry sex is my favourite."

"Oh?" Jim moaned loudly when Seb dipped down to kiss his neck, a day's worth of stubble scratching his skin. Delicious.

"Yes," Seb hissed against him. His breath was hot and tickling. "You're so passionate when you're angry. Your eyes darken and smoulder, and the way you look at me makes my skin prickle. It's like there's electricity in the air, and suddenly I'm so hot for you it  _aches_. Then you grab me and crush our lips together, and the whole world screeches to a stop."

Jim groaned obscenely loudly as Seb worked his way lower, kissing down his chest to a dusky nipple and latching on. "Keep talking. Oh, God, keep talking. I love your voice when you're turned on."

"I love when you use me," he said in reply, his lips wrapped around Jim's nipple and his tongue lavishing it. "I love when you force me down and take me like you're attacking me, like you'd just as soon punch me as kiss me. It's so harsh and frantic. You fuck me so hard when you're in a mood. The noises you make are more animal than human, and God I love how you make me scream your name when I come, won't let me come until I do."

Jim was growling now, actually growling, and digging his hands into Seb's shirt. He grabbed two ends of it and ripped it open, too aroused to care that he could have just pulled it over his head. Sebastian shuddered appreciatively at the gesture before locking their lips fiercely back together. Jim could hear him fumbling at his belt buckle, and the sound made him impossibly harder.

Their hips were grinding in a slow circle now, stoking a burning pleasure deep in his lower abdomen. Moments later, hot flesh came into contact with hot flesh, and they both moaned, throwing their heads back, drowning in it.

"Bed," Jim ordered, though he would be content to have Seb fuck him hard against the wall. His right-hand man nodded, his eyes half-lidded, and began to manoeuvre them over, guiding Jim over with two hands on his hips. The back of Jim's thighs hit the mattress a moment later, and he tumbled onto it. He yelped when he encountered cold metal. Rummaging through their tangled pile of white sheets, he extracted something large and black.

"Your rifle?" he asked Seb, holding the large gun up with a decidedly confused expression on his face.

Sebastian was beaming. "My modified Sterling SAR-87! I've been looking everywhere for that! I knew I left it around here somewhere."

"What the fuck is it doing in our bed? If this is some new kink of yours, I might just be amenable to that."

Sebastian shrugged, stroking the black metal with obvious reverence. "I dunno. I must have needed it for something."

Jim rolled his eyes. Sometimes he would swear the man loved guns more than he loved . . . pretty much anything. Jim pointed to where his cock was standing straight up from his body. "If you would kindly direct your attention to another hard, solid thing that is in need of your tender maintenance, I'd be much obliged."

Seb moved to the nightstand, set the rifle carefully down—switching on the safety as he went—and divested himself of his jeans and pants. As soon as he was naked, he crawled on top of Jim, looking unbearably aroused. His cock bobbed against his stomach, and Jim reached down to rake his fingers through the soft, blond curls that grew around it. Seb pressed his hips down, seeking more contact. Jim obliged him, grasping his cock at the leaking head and giving it a firm pump. Seb shivered and moved to straddle his hips. Their pricks came into full contact, and their moans rang harmoniously in the air.

Jim would never admit it aloud, but he loved Seb's cock. Of all the lovers he'd had in his lifetime, and he fancied he'd had quite a few, Seb had the best cock of all of them. It was so thick and heavy, with a lovely web of veins jutting beneath the skin. It fit perfectly in Jim's hand, felt like it belonged there, nestled in his palm. It tasted every bit as good as it looked, too, inexplicably sweet and the perfect shape to fit right up against his soft palate when he swallowed around it.

"What do you want?" Seb asked, leaning down to nip Jim's earlobe. "I'll do anything you want. You know I will, Jim. I'd do anything for you." His hips were rolling smoothly, dragging their wet erections against each other with aching slowness.

"Oh," Jim gasped, "oh, just like that is perfect. God, Seb, that feels good."

"No, you feel good." His voice was tickling Jim's ear in a way he found impossibly arousing. When he wanted to, Seb could talk like velvet, like hot fingers running down your skin. "I love the way your body looks splayed beneath me, all pale skin and eyes black like ink. You get so hot here," he trailed a finger down Jim's neck, "and here" to his armpit "and especially here." The hand slid down to his groin, and with a shudder Jim realised Seb was touching all the most vulnerable parts of him. God, that was hot.

"More," Jim moaned, needy. "Please, Christ, Seb, I need more." Seb's hips were moving faster now, rubbing their cocks together with alacrity, and Jim swore. "Fuck, yes, like that! Oh god, just like that. I'm so close."

Jim's veins were singing with pleasure, and he wrapped his legs tightly around Seb's waist, bringing them impossibly closer. The friction was almost unbearable, it was so sharp.

Seb kept his mouth—his warm, surprisingly soft mouth—at Jim's ear, spiking the fire building between them higher and higher as words poured out of him, "You're so beautiful, Jim. You're gorgeous when you're like this, sweaty and panting and shaking from how turned on you are. I love watching you unravel beneath me, watch that brilliant brain of yours short circuit as you give in to it. Is that what you're doing now, Jim? Giving in to me? Surrendering?"

Jim was three seconds away from fucking losing it, and he knew Sebastian could tell. Just as Jim's breath hitched in his throat and the pleasure threatened to overflow, Seb slowed his hips, just barely rocking against him.

Jim growled with frustration, gripping Seb's shoulders with white-knuckled fingers. "You fucking bastard. You  _fucking_  bastard, you're doing this on purpose."

Seb was nipping his way down his neck, adding to the excruciating torment. "Sorry, baby, but I love the moment when you come undone too much to rush it. I want to work it out of you, drink down every moan and watch every twist of your face."

Jim couldn't help the goose bumps that prickled along his skin at the words. And then Seb reached between them, grasped both their pricks in one large hand and began to stroke them languorously. He didn't even need lube, there was so much sweat and precum on their skin. Jim was writhing at this point, moaning obscenely and rolling against the sheets. Seb knew just how to work him, twisting his wrist in precisely the right way to light his whole body on fire. Even with the slow pace, it wasn't going to be long now.

"Sebastian," he groaned, "I swear to God, if you don't finish this soon, I'll do unspeakable things to you."

He heard Sebastian let out a small, needy noise even as he felt his hand quicken between them. He was tracing the shell of Jim's ear with his tongue, and fuck if that didn't feel amazing.

"You're aching for it, aren't you, Jim? You can't stand it when I tease you, because no matter how much you brush me off or mistreat me, you need me. You need my hand on you and my cock pressed to yours. I'm the only one who knows how to make you lose it completely. I'm the only one who gets to see you desperate. Now fucking come all over my hand like I know you want to."

Jim came with a bitten-off groan, spilling hot semen on their sweat-slicked skin. Seb coaxed him through it, his fingers moving slowly to avoid overstimulation, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of him. When he was spent, panting and utterly lost to the world, he heard Seb grunting above him. He was focusing on himself now, his hand making obscene wet sounds as he moved it quickly over his own cock. He came moments later, his own semen spurting out to join Jim's.

Sluggishly, Jim trailed his fingers through it, drawing designs on his own chest. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the other man watching him, admiring him. He knew Seb loved him, even if they'd never come anywhere near to broaching the subject. He'd tried to crush the unrequited sentiment at first, until he realised how loyal it made the other man to him. Seb wasn't kidding when he said he'd do anything for him. He was an incredibly useful tool. It didn't hurt that the sex was mind blowing either.

"That," Jim finally managed to drawl, "was fantastic."

Lips pressed against his, and he did a lazy job of returning the kiss.

"I agree," Seb murmured, "though you're going to be late for your meeting."

"Shit!" Jim's eyes flew open. He'd forgotten. He scrambled out of bed, shoving Seb off him and swearing profusely. "How the fuck could you let that happen? There's no way I can have a shower, get dressed, and go all the way across London in a half hour!" He sprinted to his wardrobe and began frantically pawing through his suits.

"I know." Seb was grinning cheekily. "That's why I called the club this morning and pushed your appointment back to two."

Jim turned slowly around, keeping his face carefully blank in the way he knew frightened his lover. Seb couldn't ever tell what he was thinking when Jim looked at him like this. Indeed, Sebastian's grin faded to an expression of wariness. His eyes darted to his assault rifle, and they both knew what he was thinking. Even if Jim attacked him, he wouldn't use it.

"You," Jim said slowly, prowling forward, "have got some nerve, rearranging my schedule without permission. You must have no regard for your own survival whatsoever, you smug, masochistic," he was standing right in front of him now, slipping between his bare thighs to loom over him, "utterly sexy bastard." He let his face split into a grin before planting a wet kiss on Sebastian's lips. "Thank you, darling. I appreciate the thought."

He could feel Sebastian's relief against his lips, and the other man wrapped his strong arms around his waist.

"So," the sniper said, grinning again, "since you have some extra time . . ."

Jim smirked, already feeling a familiar stirring in his groan. "Way ahead of you, sweetheart."

They tumbled back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. When Jim emerged from their flat an hour later, he was decked out in an impeccable gray Gucci suit and shiny black shoes.

He also had a notably satisfied flush to his skin.

…


End file.
